

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
































































































































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RETOLD IN ENGLISH 






TRANSLATIONS 


STORIES FROM FOUR LANGUAGES 

Retold in English 

By 

WALTER RROOKS 



NEW YORK 


INGALLS KIMBALL PUBLISHER 
l5o FIFTH AVENUE l5o 





LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

JAN 4 906 

Copyright Entry 

U^c. /y. /9^S 

CLASS <3l XXc, No. 

/ 3 3 5 ~/ 6 

COPY B. 


Copyright, 1905 
By WALTER BROOKS 



Arranged and Printed at 
Thp Cheltenham Press 
New York 



CONTENTS 


^ # _ . „ . PAGE 

Eight Stories from Die Letze ’ Strophe 

FROM THE GERMAN OF IMRA GOERINGER. 

The Housekeeping Book ...... n 

The Parting .21 

When the Flowers Fade .27 

Love ..41 

S pringtime .43 

A litumn .49 

Flannel .55 

Folk-Legend ..63 

Fantasies 69 

FROM THE FRENCH OF CATULLE MENDES. 

The First Mass.81 

FROM THE SPANISH OF THE PRIEST LUIS COLOMA. 

A Correspondence.109 

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINZ TOVOTE. 

The Black Pearl .121 

FROM THE FRENCH OF LEON DE TINSEAU. 

Nurse Perrette.133 

FROM THE FRENCH OF RENE BAZIN. 

Two Miracles .145 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF GRAZIA DELEDDA. 

Embers.159 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCESCO ACEBAL. 

5 















6 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

“Yap”.165 

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINZ TOVOTE. 

The Peasant’s Will.179 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF ANTONIO FOGAZZARO. 

The Strange Adventure of Madame Es- 
quollier.189 

FROM THE FRENCH OF PIERRE LOUYS. 

Adios Corderal.203 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LEOPOLDO ALAS. 

The Soudan.215 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MAX HOFFMANN. 

Two Funerals .221 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF ENRICO CASTELNUOVO. 

Revenge.231 

FROM THE FRENCH OF GEORGES DE LYS. 

Dora Nani.243 

FROM THE FRENCH OF ROBERT SCHAFFER. 

“Der Klingeljunge”.253 

FROM THE GERMAN OF CLARA VIEBIG. 

The Black-Winged Angel.273 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF VIRGINIA OLPER MONIS. 

The Breadseller . .•.285 

FROM THE SPANISH OF MIGUEL RAMOS CARRION. 

The Little Brown Shoes.295 

FROM THE GERMAN OF CLARA VIEBIG. 

Mendicant Melody.309 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF EDMONDE DE AMICIS. 

First Communions.319 

FROM THE FRENCH OF ANDRE THEURIET. 

Charity.327 

FROM THE FRENCH OF MARIE ANNE DE BOVET. 















Foreword 


JN the following translations the 
indulgence of the reader is craved 
for what may appear to be a slavish 
adherence to the foreign text. It 

has seemed unwise , however , either 
to add new colors to the pictures or 
to attempt to restore their delicate 
tints necessarily marred by the 
transfer to fresh canvas. 




































































































































EIGHT STORIES FROM 
DIE LETZTE STROPHE 

FROM THE GERMAN OF 

Irma Goeringer 


The Housekeeping Book 
The Parting 

When The Flowers Fade 
Love 

Springtime 
A utumn 
Flannel 
Folk-Legend 



TRANSLATION OF LETTER FROM FRAU IRMA 
GOERINGER TO MR. WALTER BROOKS 


My Dear Sir : It is hardly a year since I first surrendered 
to the world the tiny child of my pen. My intimate circle, the 
critics and the general public as well, gave these short, unpre¬ 
tentious stories an unusually friendly reception, and by so do¬ 
ing strengthened the courage of the authoress for new work. 
You, my dear sir, are about to assist in making known “ Die 
Letzte Strophe " to a people speaking a different language—a 
nation which has always had my deepest regard. I am more 
than pleased, and thank you heartily. 

My little stories are intended to advocate no theory they 
are not sermons, nor are they for or against the morals of the 
times. They are but fragments from life, seen with the eye of 
a connoisseur, and told with the gentle and forgiving voice of a 
woman. Their father is the longing for a life of freedom, and 
of highest truth ; their mother, the all-absorbing love. They are 
written for sorrowing women, and for men with strong and 
noble hearts. 

To all such people, American and German, to every one, over 
land or sea, to whom I can give a moment's pleasure, I stretch 
forth my hands, and to you the first, my dear Mr. Brooks. 

Gratefully yours, 

IRMA GOERINGER. 


(Signed) 


IRMA Schurter-Goeringer 


Zurich, den 

Merkurstrasse 46 






































































































* 




























THE HOUSEKEEPING BOOK 


JVAISTRESS LIDDY, the young matron, went 
tripping up the stairs, humming to her¬ 
self; a branch of cherry blossoms in her hand, 
and the light of spring sunshine in her eyes. 

Putting the blossoms between her teeth, she 
hurriedly unbuttoned her jacket, and took the hat¬ 
pins out of her hat. When she reached the third 
floor the door was cautiously opened, and the maid¬ 
servant peeped out; she made a sign to her mis¬ 
tress, who hastily took the twig out of her mouth. 

“Is the Master already home?” 

“Yes, he came in a quarter of an hour ago; it’s 
twenty-five minutes to-” 

Liddy consulted her watch. “So it is! We 
must hurry. Here, Marie, take my things and 
bring in the soup at once.” 

By the time Mistress Liddy had opened the 
door of the living-room, the light of spring sun¬ 
shine was gone from her eyes. 

Furchtegott Breitmeier sat at a small table, pre¬ 
tentiously reading from a large volume. He an¬ 
swered the timid greeting of his wife, with a scarce 
audible mutter, and cast a disapproving look tow¬ 
ard the cherry blossoms. 



12 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Close behind Liddy came Marie with the soup- 
tureen. Its inviting odor induced Herr Breit- 
meier to arise pompously, and with an ostentatious 
turn of the head toward the clock he said, in a 
reproving tone: 

“It is seven minutes after half-past twelve. I 
was brought up to have my dinner punctually at 
half-past twelve. My deal, departed mother al¬ 
ways was on time.” 

Liddy filled the soup-plates in silence, and 
Furchtegott Breitmeier ate impressively three 
large helpings, while drops rolled from his heavy 
mustache down his beard, and were lost in the 
napkin. 

Liddy pushed her plate away and stared ab¬ 
sent-mindedly at the salt-spoon, with which she 
was playing. 

Husband and wife kept silence. Breitmeier 
was fully occupied with his dinner, and Liddy 
had learned to abstain from asking questions, 
which were not answered, or relating happenings 
which were not listened to. 

Finally Breitmeier folded his napkin. Then he 
directed a look toward his wife and wrinkled his 
forehead: 

“Is that a new blouse you have on?” 

“Yes, it’s a new one.” 

“Where did you get it?” 

“I bought it at a sale.” 

“Is it paid for?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where is the receipt?” 

“I have none.” 

“Lost?” 



THE HOUSEKEEPING BOOK 


13 


“No, I didn’t get any.” 

“You know very well that I wish to see a re¬ 
ceipt for everything. My dear, departed mother 
bought nothing without a receipt, and she kept 
every one. I suppose you have at least entered 
the amount in your expense book.” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because I bought the blouse with the money 
which Aunt Julia gave me for my birthday, and 
also because where my own money is concerned, 
I refuse to keep an account of it.” 

In Liddy’s eyes blazed restrained anger; on 
Furchtegott Breitmeier’s contracted forehead, 
appeared red patches. He angrily pushed his 
chair back, and took from the table the large vol¬ 
ume which he had been reading. 

“Lydia!” 

“Well?” 

“I have examined your housekeeping book. 
For ten days you have made no entries in it, not 
a single one, and you know well that I require 
from you an exact account of every penny. I in¬ 
sist on knowing where my money goes. Do you 
hear? This very day I want you to put down 
every item, and give me the book to-night. To-¬ 
morrow is the first—I wager you have not a penny 
left—and I tell you distinctly that you will n-ot 
get a penny more unless I can learn to-night ex¬ 
actly what has been spent. And if, as so often 
happens, I find that the money has gone for gew¬ 
gaws, I shall deduct it from your personal pin- 
money. Remember that.” 

Furchtegott Breitmeier hereupon noisily stamped 



14 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


out of the room, with his clumsy, heavy-soled 
shoes. His wife heard him as he took his hat 
from the rack and left the house. She knew he 
was going to the cafe for his game of cards, and 
that if he lost twenty marks it would not trouble 
him. That was his privilege as a man. 

But as for her, she had to save and scrape. He 
grudged her everything. She, who loved sun¬ 
shine, flowers, and birds, who, happy and careless 
as a child, wanted only to live from day to day, 
must from morning till night—cipher, cipher, 
cipher. And she had not only to deliberate about 
each little purchase, to discuss it, perhaps to give 
it up, or only at the last moment get it, but she 
also had to write it down and give a strict account 
of it—and for what reason? 

Because the “dear, departed mother,” had al¬ 
ways done so, and because Furchtegott Breit- 
meier considered this the best way to subjugate 
a woman, and emphasize his authority. He set 
great value upon his authority, did Herr Breit- 
meier, like all people who fear the superiority of 
others, and are uncertain themselves as to what 
particular talent they owe their authority. Liddy 
saw through him, and Breitmeier felt this—an 
additional reason to assert his mastery; and the 
young wife submitted. What else could she do? 
She had no one in the world to defend her rights, 
no one to shield her. She was absolutely poor, 
absolutely defenceless. She had to obey, if her 
life were to be at all bearable. 

Liddy took the housekeeping book and con¬ 
sidered. Some nrnor expenses she recalled to 



THE HOUSEKEEPING BOOK 


15 


mind. She jotted them hastily down. Then a 
few larger items occurred to her; after that she 
could remember nothing more. But there were 
still fifty marks to account for. 

Where were they, where ? 

Liddy racked her brains but she could not recol¬ 
lect. There kept rising up before her the ravish¬ 
ing spring costume in Simone’s shop-window, the 
dainty straw hat trimmed with roses at Mme. 
Eckmann’s, new books, whose titles and authors 
had tempted her, a pair of red buttoned-shoes 
which she had almost bought, sweets, perfumery, 
and gloves, and—the silk petticoat. 

Then the blond head dropped down on the 
hated housekeeping book, one more deep sigh, 
and spring weariness had gained the mastery. 

The young woman slept. 

A half-hour later Paul Hofmann, who, as an old 
friend of the family, came unannounced into the 
room, found her still asleep. Surprised, and 
touched as well, he stopped. Nothing escaped his 
experienced eye. He knew his old schoolmate 
Furchtegott Breitmeier, and he also knew the 
rosy-cheeked young wife, better than they knew 
themselves. 

With a quiet smile he shook his head, and in 
this smile lay more or less contempt for the “au¬ 
thority” fanatic and a great deal of pity for the 
tormented victim. 

“Poor little Liddy!” he said, softly. 

The sleeper awoke. Dreamily she turned her 
eyes toward the visitor. His presence did not 
startle her, as he was in the habit of dropping in 
at all hours, and with easy grace she extended her 




i6 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


hand. He took it in one of his own, and with the 
other stroked her hair. 

He said again: “Poor little Liddy; poor little 
butterfly; are they clipping your beautiful wings 
because you are too light and too fluttering for 
their ponderous natures? What have they done 
to the frail little humming-bird?” 

Liddy closed her eyes and rested her head 
against his arm. Tears ran down her cheeks, and 
on her face was an expression of pain. 

Paul Hofmann noticed it. He bit his lip angrily. 
Furchtegott Breitmeier had been his schoolmate, 
but if he were going to develop into a brutal prig, 
and drive a charming little woman to despair 
with his pedantic conceit, then Paul Hofmann 
would snap his finger at their friendship. Yes, 
that is just what he would do. 

In the mean time Liddy had collected herself. 
She dried her eyes and smiled at the visitor with 
a tinge of embarrassment. 

“I don’t understand how I can act this way,” 
she said, “lam not usually a cry-baby. But that 
thing is the cause of it all.” And angrily she 
banged with her little fist on the housekeeping 
book, so that the pen-holder bounced into the air 
with astonishment. 

“This stupid book,” she continued, “it never 
balances, never! One can spend all the time pos¬ 
sible on it and it never comes out right. Just look 
how much ink I have wasted for milk, and bread 
and butter, and meat and cheese and fruit and 
vegetables, for lamp chimneys and soap, for 
emery and coal, for—what nonsense! Is it worth 
while for such absurdity to sit hours at a time, 



THE HOUSEKEEPING BOOK 


n 


day after day, to rack one’s brain, to cramp one’s 
fingers, until one becomes inane and stupid, only 
for the sake of seeing in the end what is known 
already—that the money is gone—stuff and non¬ 
sense! Tell me, is it true what my husband says, 
that all women keep housekeeping books, that 
correct balances are proofs of the faultless charac¬ 
ter of the wife? Is that true? And would you 
insist that your wife should be bothered with such 
hateful stuff?” 

Paul Hofmann again stroked the blond head 
consolingly. 

“I do not know,” he said, “whether all women 
keep housekeeping books, and I do not care, but 
what I do know is that my wife shall never take 
pen in hand nor be bothered by figures, unless 
she is so disposed.” 

“Ah,” said Liddy, and she looked at him with 
glistening eyes, like a child who hears a fairy-tale 
and dares not believe its splendor. Then a shadow 
again crossed her face. 

“But what use is that to me? I am not your 
wife!” 

“Unfortunately not,” said Paul Hofmann, 
jestingly, “and for that very fact I can help you, 
Liddy, provided you will only be just a little rea¬ 
sonable.” 

Liddy got up quickly, went to the other side of 
the table, and said in a changed tone of voice: 

“No, Herr Hofmann, I am not reasonable to 
that extent. It was only recently I told you I 
could not do it.” 

“Nonsense.” Paul Hofmann let his fist fall 
angrily on the table. “You are such a child! 



i8 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


What do I ask of you ? Nothing which you could 
not grant to a devoted friend. I am rich, alone in 
the world, without relatives, without friends, ex¬ 
cept yourself. I am in a position to make your life 
easier and more agreeable, without the least sac¬ 
rifice on my part. On the contrary, if I am com¬ 
pelled continually to feel: ‘here is a poor little 
woman, who is fretting her little head about 
things she will never learn, who' has annoying 
and difficult moments, who worries, and cries and 
is generally unhappy’—that will be to me a per¬ 
fectly unbearable situation. You will, therefore, 
do me an absolute kindness if you will allow me 
to help you with what I have in superabundance.” 

“Frau Liddy,” he continued, “you are usually 
so sensible, now consider: your allowance and 
your expenses will never balance, because your 
husband simply does not give you sufficient money. 
If you will, therefore, accept from me the differ¬ 
ence, you will spare both yourself and him vexa¬ 
tion, and give me great pleasure. There—” Paul 
Hofmann took from his breast-pocket an envelope 
and put it beside the housekeeping book—“I am 
going now, so that, alone and undisturbed, you 
may consider the proposal. Adieu, Frau Liddy. 
When I come again, I hope to see laughing eyes, 
and no more tears shed over matters not worth 
taking seriously.” And before Liddy could utter 
a word, he had closed the door behind him. 

The young woman remained standing by the 
table, like one in a trance. What Herr Hofmann 
had said, had occurred to her a hundred times. 
A little aid, which he would not feel, would give 
to her a life worth living. 



THE HOUSEKEEPING BOOK 


19 


But-? Was there anything in this world 

for nothing ? Suppose some time he should come 
and demand his pay ? 

Liddy contracted her eyebrows. On her face 
appeared a cold, determined look. A hostile 
glance was directed toward the housekeeping 
book. Let him come! She was ready to pay, 
and, perhaps, it would not be compulsion. Why 
should it be ? Did she love her husband, the man 
who ill-treated her because it suited his vanity to 
humble his wife ? Liddy was conscious that there 
were moments when she hated her husband, like 
an animal its tormentor. Yet she submitted to 
his wishes, as was her wifely duty. 

Then why should she hesitate to thank, in the 
manner most acceptable to him, the friend who 
covered with a downy carpet the path which the 
other one had strewn with thorns ? Assuredly she 
need not hesitate. 

Let him come! She would willingly rush into 
his arms, and hide her head on his shoulder. 

With a firm hand she took the envelope. She 
chose a fifty mark note from among the bills, and 
put it between the pages of the housekeeping 
book. 

There—the book is balanced. 

The same evening Herr Furchtegott Breitmeier 
was agreeably surprised at the faultless balancing 
of the house account. Yes, he even went so far as 
to make a few complimentary remarks, in which 
there was much about the moral value of a prop¬ 
erly kept housekeeping book. 

Frau Liddy acquiesced with a peculiar smile, 



20 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


and tenderly laid the formidable book on her 
work-table. She treated it now with the forbear¬ 
ing generosity due to a conquered enemy. From 
this day forth, Liddy remained the victor. The 
housekeeping book had lost all its terrors, since it 
had ceased to show a deficit, and Herr Furchte- 
gott Breitmeier had the greatest respect for his 
little wife, who knew how to figure so excellently 
—even better than his dear, departed mother. 

To outside observers, there seems to be no 
forced balance in Liddy’s existence, and as far as 
she herself is concerned, either she is conscious of 
none, or at least gives it little attention. 

In her simple, childish mind she thinks: “The 
just God understands everything, and for that 
reason will decide at the day of reckoning who is 
to blame for any deficit in the account book of my 
life.” 



THE PARTING 


“pNAD’GE FRAU?” 

° “Well?” 

“May I ask Gnad’ge Frau something?” 

“Certainly, Anna, what is the matter?” Frau 
Martha turned her head in the direction of the 
questioner, who stood by the tea-table, moving 
the china backward and forward in her embar¬ 
rassment. 

“ I would like to ask Gnad’ge Frau what I ought 
to do; I can’t quite make up my mind, and so I 
thought —Gnad’ge Frau has always been so kind 
to me—the fact is that Gottfried has written, he 
wants me to—he would like—that is—he thinks 
—Oh, dear!—If Gnad’ge Frau would only read 
the letter herself.” 

Martha took the sheet of paper, which was dec¬ 
orated with a large, red rose of impossible form, 
and color, and read: 

My Never-forgotten Anna: 

Hearing that you are about to leave here and go to Munich 
to be married, for which event I wish you all good-luck without 
the least ill-feeling, I would like to ask if I could not see you 
before you leave, to say ‘Good-bye.’ I should like to very 
much, and as I am free next Sunday, we could do this the best 
by going out together, either to the Orpheum or wherever else 
you wish. I have a lot to say to you, and there is no use why 


21 



22 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


we should be on bad terms with one another. We have had 
many a happy time together, and it is not all my fault that 
things have turned out as they have. Write soon, and with 
best love. Your never-forgotten, 

Gottfried. 

“Well,” said Frau Martha, as she gingerly- 
folded the letter with the tips of her fingers, “as 
far as I can judge from this, Gottfried wishes to 
see you once more before your departure. Would 
you like to see him?” 

The rising color in Anna’s cheeks, and her 
glistening eyes, spoke plainly enough. Frau 
Martha pretended she saw nothing. Her piquant 
features, which did not quite correspond with the 
rather commonplace costume she wore, assumed 
a serious expression. 

“My dear Anna,” she said, “I hope you have 
not thought for a moment of accepting the invi¬ 
tation . Just reflect how this man has acted toward 
you. Two years ago, when you came to me, you 
were sick and miserable. In addition to that you 
had in your arms a mite of a baby, and were at a 
loss what to do with it. If it had not been for me, 
who knows whether you and the little one would 
be alive to-day. Did Gottfried at that time 
bother himself about you ? Not a bit of it. And 
he was the cause of all your trouble. Then Se¬ 
bastian was taken with you, and now wants to 
marry you in spite of the child. He is willing 
even to adopt it. He has a good business, is an 
honorable man, and will treat you well. There¬ 
fore let Gottfried write what he will, and pay no 
attention to him.” 

Anna took out her handkerchief and wiped her 
eyes. 



THE PARTING 


2 3 


“Gnad’ge Frau is right. I see it in the same 
way, only it was not entirely Gottfried’s fault. I 
was obstinate and would not listen to reason. If 
I had only taken advice things might have been 
different.” 

“Nonsense,” Frau Martha was almost losing 
her patience. “All this sort of talk is utter fool¬ 
ishness. In four weeks you will be the wife of an 
honest man. It is useless to rake up old love 
affairs. Clench your teeth and do your duty. 
After you have been married a year or two, you will 
be only too glad that you were sensible to-day.” 

Anna looked as if this future happiness had 
little attraction, but she kept her thoughts to her¬ 
self, and left the room silently. Frau Martha 
complacently poured out her tea, and felt she 
had spoken wisely. 

Out of doors was dreary, November weather. 
The world looked chilled, and in bad temper, and 
low-lying, misty clouds seemed almost to touch 
the ground. B-r-r-r-r-, think of going out! Mar¬ 
tha contemplated the comfortable dining-room, 
which displayed the massive and perhaps some¬ 
what over-solemn furnishing of a staid and well- 
to-do household. Her whole surroundings were 
in the same fashion. A small boudoir, only, she 
had furnished herself, and into this no one was 
admitted. There she sought refuge when her 
past came back to her. There she took up the 
bothersome struggle with her second self, that self 
which clever persons were sure they saw in her 
piquant face, with its retrousse nose, her deep red 
lips, and fiery black eyes. 



24 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


There, throwing herself down on a divan, clad 
in a purple silk Japanese kimona, embroidered 
with gold dragons, and balancing on the tip of her 
foot an Oriental slipper, she smoked cigarettes 
until the room was filled with a perfumed va¬ 
por. 

When she again, after a few hours, unlocked the 
door of her boudoir, she was once more the ap¬ 
propriately dressed Frau Martha Weber, the for¬ 
mal spouse of the very dignified merchant of un¬ 
impeachable antecedents and blameless fortune. 
In this character she indulged in occasional moral 
discourses, in which duty and propriety played 
an important part. She had learned that sort of 
thing from her husband, in three years of married 
life. 

Frau Martha’s tea-cup was empty. She was 
about to ring to have the china removed, when 
Anna appeared and brought a letter on a silver 
tray. 

Martha gave only one glance at the bold hand¬ 
writing of the address, and then arose quickly, 
much more quickly than was the custom of the 
deliberate Frau Martha Weber. She took the 
letter and disappeared behind the door of her 
boudoir. 

She threw herself on the divan, this time with¬ 
out changing her costume, and hastily tore open 
the envelope. 

My Charming Little Elf: 

I must call you that, since no other name occurs to me, 
when I think of your dear, sweet face. And this I picture to 
myself very often—too often, in fact, for my peace of mind. 
Three long years have passed since I have seen it closely, 
although we are living in the same town, and are united by 




THE PARTING 


25 


the one love. For you will never make me believe, my sweet¬ 
heart, that you have forgotten your old Fritz, your first love, 
no matter how hard you try. No, no! 

It makes no difference if you did write me at the time:— 
Martin Weber wishes to marry me, and I, the portionless 
daughter of a poor official’s widow, dare not say no. You and 
I—we have nothing, and a young artist like yourself should 
not marry and burden himself with wife and family, else he 
will handicap his future. I have confessed to Weber that I 
am fond of you, but he seems to take it lightly. As long as 
everything is now over, and you will be a good wife to me,— 
that was his reply. I promised this, and will keep my promise. 
Therefore, my love, my own, we must never see one another 
again, and never speak. It is over for all time. 

This is what you wrote me, you elf, I saw the force of it, 
and on my side have helped you keep your promise. 

To-day matters are different, for do you know, sweetheart, 

I have received a commission in Southern Italy, and leave in 
a few days. I shall be where the sun is warmer, and man 
more light-hearted than with us. I expect never to return, 
never again to see you as long as I live. I must, however, 
once more look into your eyes. I must carry with me, to a new 
existence, a sweet remembrance. 

My darling, I know your husband is away—you are free— 
you can leave without hindrance. Meet me once more in the 
twilight, as of old. 

Come to me, that I may clasp you in my arms, that I may 
kiss your dear, dear face, hear your laughter once more, for * 
the last time. 

Let no former promise hold you hack. Do not rob your¬ 
self and me of this sacred farewell to our love and our youth. 
You can then be true to your husband for life, and drag out 
your existence conscientiously. Enjoy the sweet hour offered 
by fortune, the memory of which is perhaps the only sun-ray 
to brighten later on your sad path of duty. 

Formerly you recognized only one will—my own. With 
that in mind, I put my whole strength, my whole longing into 
this entreaty: Come to me, my elf, come to me once again. 

I am waiting, and I know I shall not wait in vain. I send all 
the spirit of love’s memories to bring you hither. 

Fritz— thine. 


A half-hour later Anna was kneeling before her 
mistress buttoning her boots. 

Martha looked thoughtfully at the blond head, 




26 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


which was bent low to conceal a tear-stained 
face. A sudden pity moved her. 

“Anna,” she said, “I have thought the matter 
over differently. Write to Gottfried that you will 
go out with him Sunday. You can for the future 
always be a model wife. Life in itself is not over¬ 
joyful, and we are foolish to give up so readily 
the few holidays it offers.” 

“Oh, Gnad’ge Frau,” Anna’s countenance 
beamed, “it would have been so hard for me. 
After all, he was the first, and I loved him so. 
One never forgets that.” 

And Martha repeated dreamily, with happy, 
youthful eyes: 

“No, one never forgets that.” Then she 
clapped her hands with joy. 

“Run and call me a carriage, it is almost twi¬ 
light; and,” she added, softly, so that Anna could 
not hear, “I must catch the sun-ray which is to 
brighten my path as long as I live.” 



WHEN THE FLOWERS FADE 


I 

VTOT one of the numerous street-singers of 
* ^ Nice sang so tunefully or knew so many 
ballads, as did Aime, the unkempt little vaga¬ 
bond whose skin the Riviera sun had tanned 
through the holes in his ragged jacket. 

He belonged to that homeless community 
which had its retreats in the rocky caves along the 
Cornice road and lived on the scraps which each 
day provided. His parents had given him as 
birthplace one of the garden spots of the earth, 
but beyond that his father felt no responsibility, 
and, after the child had learned to walk, his 
mother also ceased to concern herself about him. 
But Aime thrived and grew—not for the sake of 
affording pleasure to others, but for his own per¬ 
sonal delight. 

The world was a joy to him. When not en¬ 
gaged in his calling—and in that only the after¬ 
noons were spent—he would lie stretched out on 
the sand, or on some dry seaweed by the edge of 
the water, blinking in the sunshine and listening 
to what the deep blue waves were saying about 
the life of the sea. A few oranges, which he had 
27 



28 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


stolen somewhere, a few olives or perhaps a small 
fish, satisfied his hunger. 

Aime was not of a social disposition, he sought 
no companions either for business or pleasure. 
One day, however, he formed an acquaintance 
which terminated in a love affair, and gave from 
that time on a different aspect to life. Till now 
Aime had provided only for himself; but since he 
knew Aline, he worked for two. She was a year 
or two younger than he, but her big black eyes 
saw just as quickly every opportunity—yes, if any¬ 
thing, she was even nimbler, cleverer in pilfering 
than Aime. As a matter of fact, the boy many 
times had to suffer for her agility; he got the 
beatings while Aline crouched in some corner and 
joyfully devoured the booty, including often Aime’s 
share as well. 

Aline was homeless like Aime. As their parents 
were expatriated • Italians, who were not sought 
after by their own country, and who had neither 
duties nor rights in France, the children were not 
compelled to attend school. They learned only 
what life taught them, to struggle relentlessly for 
their young existence. 

They saw the luxurious display of riches on the 
part of foreigners, who scattered the wealth of all 
countries with lavish hand. To their share came 
only a few coppers, and for these even they had 
to strive. Aline occasionally received something 
without effort, but Aime’s stub nose, his un¬ 
combed bristles, and his sallow skin did not 
awaken any admiration. 

Only when he sang were the people attracted, 
and his art had won Aline’s heart as well. She, 



WHEN THE FLOWERS FADE 


29 


herself, was absolutely void of musical talent, and 
no matter what pains Aime took to teach her, she 
was unable to memorize tunes. 

One simple air, however, she had mastered. 
It is possible the French street-singers had learned 
it from some of the popular Gypsy bands, playing 
as they do their own Slavic music. Some one had 
composed verses for it, and the touching words, 
together with the pathetic air, appealed to the 
crowds who had come to forget their Northern 
winter along these sunny shores. It brought tears 
to the eyes of the sick, and a thoughtful smile to 
fresh young faces. 

Aime and Aline had gradually learned the 
verses. They sang the song together and the 
guests of the large cafes on the Place Massena felt 
in their pockets for coppers when the two chil¬ 
dren, in measured tone, with a serious expression 
on their vagabond faces, drawled solemnly through 
the three verses. 


I 

“When in winter’s chill 
All is cold and still, 

And in songster’s throat 
Hushed is every note, 

All my thoughts shall be 
Day and night of thee, 
When in songster’s throat 
Hushed is every note. 

II 

“ When the flowers fade, 
And no love is made, 
When all joy below 
Turns to grief and woe, 
All my thoughts shall be 
Day and night of thee, 
When all joy below 
Turns to grief and woe. 



3° 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


III 

“ Let then come what may, 

Till the final day, 

When the sun sinks low, 

And to death we go, 

All my thoughts shall be 
Day and night of thee, 

When the sun sinks low, 

And to death we go.” 

After the pair had experimented for a whole 
afternoon as to what was the money value of their 
new song, they figured up in the evening a net 
profit of forty-five sous, five oranges, a handful of 
sugar, and four tarts. Aime was overcome by 
these riches. He lay flat on his back, gazed with 
wide open eyes upon the rapidly sinking sun, and 
considered. Aline in the mean time ate the tarts, 
the sugar, and three oranges, and, as she was de¬ 
liberating as to the fourth, Aime turned toward 
her. 

“Aline,” said he, “we have made a lot of 
money to-day, and we will make heaps more if we 
only work together. We ought always to do so. 
I have been thinking the matter over, and what 
seems best for us, as soon as we grow up, is to get 
married. Will you?” 

Aline accepted the offer. It even awakened in 
her, for a moment, the domestic trait which 
prompted her voluntarily to give up to Aime the 
fourth and fifth oranges. Contentedly she 
watched how greedily her future spouse ate. He 
was welcome to the fruit as far as she was con¬ 
cerned, since she had really had enough. Light- 
heartedly she collected the empty orange peeling 
and threw it into the water, while Aime helped 
her, and as the last piece was bobbing about on 



WHEN THE FLOWERS FADE 


3 1 


the waves, the children put their arms around one 
another, and this time for their own pleasure, 
sang to the murmuring accompaniment of the 
waters: 


“When in winter’s chill 
All is cold and still, 

And in songster’s throat 
Hushed is every note, 

All my thoughts shall be 
Day and night of thee, 
When in songster’s throat 
Hushed is every note.” 


II 

Only a little while longer, and then it would 
come to pass. Every evening when he went to 
his garret, Aime made calculations. His fingers, 
unskilled in writing, clutched clumsily the pencil 
with which he scrawled awkward figures on a 
scrap of paper. When these figures were income 
they were harbingers of joy, but when expenses, 
then they became disturbers of the peace. But 
the harbingers of joy kept increasing. Half a 
year more of diligent work, and he could venture. 
Then would he finally receive the reward of his 
labor of love, that love which had transformed 
him from a lazy fellow, a good-for-nothing, into 
one who was diligent and saving. Then would he 
have a little home, would return from work each 
evening to his fireside, would at last, at last! call 
Aline his own. Aime was firmly convinced of one 
thing, however, and that was that Aline must do 
absolutely nothing which would take her into 
other houses or into hotels. Since he had been a 



3 2 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


waiter he had seen all sorts of things, and had 
learned his lesson accordingly. 

The rich strangers were haughty, yes, very, 
they never had a pleasant word for the waiter, but 
they were not too proud to notice any pretty 
woman who brought laundry or needlework into 
the house. 

Aline was very pretty, and for that reason Aime 
could not endure the thought that she took the 
laundry to the hotels herself. He had often spoken 
about it to the proprietress who employed her, 
but the old woman only laughed. It meant good 
business. Even if the collars were not quite clean, 
Aline’s sparkling eyes made up for it, and the 
orders increased. 

A young Russian especially was attracted by 
the pert little French girl. He lay in wait for her 
when she called for the wash on Monday, and 
brought it back on Saturday. 

Aline wore a small gold brooch, which was sup¬ 
posed to have been given to her by an old lady, 
but Aime was convinced that the hated Russian 
was responsible for it. But what could he do? 
Aline was so nice to him when he saw her, and 
seemed not to have forgotten their childhood’s 
affection. Whenever he spoke of marriage she 
smiled and said nothing. She naturally saved 
little; everything she earned went for personal 
adornments and sweets. Aime did not resent 
that, however, for when he came Sunday evening 
she was tender and loving, so that he forgot the 
anxieties he sometimes had concerning her, and 
only looked forward to the day when she should 
belong wholly to him. Now and then, when in 



WHEN THE FLOWERS FADE 


33 


the mood, she sang with him the old song, which 
was in recent days seldom heard, except along the 
docks among the sailors. 

“When in winter’s chill 
All is cold and still-” 

Once Aline said, “That is a Russian folk-song.” 

Aime looked at her in surprise. “How do you 
know that?” 

“Oh! The Russian said so. He once told me 
where he comes from everything is snow and ice 
in winter. Then I told him, I knew a song which 
began, “When in winter’s chill all is cold and 
still-” 

“And then?” 

“Then he asked me to sing it, and after I had 
done so he said he thought it was an old Russian 
folk-song.” 

“He thought that, did he?” Aime suppressed 
the jealousy which was rising in him. But now 
his liking for the song was gone; its joy for him 
had been destroyed. 

From now on he worked even more diligently, 
was even more saving than before, until at last he 
found himself near the goal. He had accumu¬ 
lated the desired amount. 

Carefully he hid the money and memorandum 
in a cupboard among his clothes, and putting on 
his holiday coat, he ran down the stairs whistling 
from joy. He was going to find Aline, who had 
no idea how large his savings were, to tell her of 
the nearness of their happy future. 

Only a few narrow streets to cross and he stood 
3 33 




34 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


before the house of Old Madame Bernard. The 
door, as usual, was unlocked. He felt his way 
along the dingy hall to where he saw a light shin¬ 
ing. He entered a narrow room and found Ma¬ 
dame Bernard and two other old hags, as ugly and 
dirty as herself, sitting together, talking excitedly. 

Upon seeing the young man they were silent, 
but only for a moment, when an avalanche of 
talk broke loose, which Aime, dazed, allowed to 
go on. He did not, however, understand a word. 
His look sought Aline. She was not there, so he 
started toward the door, but he was immediately 
seized by Madame Bernard, who hurled in his 
face words which made him turn back in horror. 

He caught the old woman by her slovenly wrap¬ 
per, and roared in her face: “Silence! For God’s 
sake, silence! Hold your tongues, you old 
witches, or I’ll find a way to make you.” He 
raised his fist in anger. There was a hush. Aime 
drew his sleeve across his face and took a long 
breath. Then he demanded of the woman whom 
he still held: “What about Aline? Speak! And 

mind you tell the truth, or-” and again he 

raised his fist. The old woman drew back. 

“On my honor,—please let me go—I am only 
telling the plain truth, nothing else. Last night 
she was to take the laundry to the young Russian 
in the Hotel National, you know. She went, but 
so far she has not come back. This morning I 
was at the hotel myself, the Russian was gone. 
The money for the laundry was left with the por¬ 
ter, also the basket, but he knew nothing of Aline. 
He thought she might probably be with the Rus¬ 
sian, as they had always been hand and glove-” 




WHEN THE FLOWERS FADE 


35 


The old woman went no further. Aime had 
suddenly let her go, so that she staggered back. 
Before she could add anything, the door closed 
behind him. 

On the dry seaweed by the edge of the water, 
lay a prostrate form. Eyes, full of despair, gazed 
disconsolately at the clear night-sky, where the 
stars shone with a cold, quiet splendor. What 
did they care for the grief of a human heart ? The 
sea which can lash itself to a fury of passion, and 
which again under the soothing rays of the sun, 
can compose itself and become calm—that sym¬ 
pathized with his sorrow. In the roar of the 
combing waves, and in the ripple of the water on 
the beach, could be heard the voice of consolation. 

But Aime did not recognize it.' In silent rage 
he clinched his fists. Resentment overcame every 
other feeling within him- 

All at once, through the peaceful night, a sound 
fell upon his ear. He listened—suddenly he put 
both hands to his face. Anger and despair were 
banished in a burst of tears. The doorway of a 
nearby tavern had been thrown open, and there 
came to him the low voice of a young girl, who 
sang, every word distinct, 

“When the flowers fade, 

And no love is made, 

When all joy below 
Turns to grief and woe, 

All my thoughts shall be 
Day and night of thee, 

When all joy below 
Turns to grief and woe.’* 



36 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


III 

The brightest of spring sunshine played upon 
the jagged tops of the Cornice. The flower-sellers 
were having profitable days. There was stimula¬ 
tion in the air, a desire to enjoy life, to give vent 
to one’s feelings, to which the blossoming spring 
season, the warm comforting sunshine, the deep 
blue sea, the preparations for the Carnival—in 
fact everything and everybody contributed. 

On the road from Nice to Monte Carlo the dust 
whirled in thick clouds. The street was crowded 
from morning till night. Automobile after auto¬ 
mobile rushed by, relentlessly speeding along—a 
wild chase. 

Whoever did not go from Nice to the Casino at 
Monte Carlo, or in the opposite direction to the 
battle of flowers at Nice, at least stopped half-way 
at Beaulieu. 

The space in front of the Cafe de la Terrasse 
was blocked with carriages and automobiles. On 
the terrace overlooking the sea, every table was 
taken. The view was charming. Stretching 
away as far as the eye could reach, was the deep 
blue sea, while to the left the coast of Bordighera 
glistened. A strong salt air tempted the appetite. 

An unusually good orchestra played in the pas¬ 
sage between the main dining-room and the ter¬ 
race. The band of the Cafe de la Terrasse had 
established a reputation for itself this season, and 
especially for its tenor, over whom the ladies had 
lost their hearts. He was no longer young—per¬ 
haps forty—and not particularly good-looking, 



WHEN THE FLOWERS FADE 


37 


but in his voice lay a peculiar charm, which fas¬ 
cinated both the blase and the nervous women of 
the whole or half-world, as did the sirens Ulysses 
of old. They vied with one another to pay him 
court, and while he was not unresponsive, all his 
gallantry had a tinge of contemptuousness, of 
Pasha-like indifference, as if he wholly despised 
all these women, who sought after him, and 
whom he treated as his fancy prompted. 

At the further end of the terrace sat a lady and 
gentleman. They were probably there for the 
first time, as the waiters and the members of the 
orchestra did not know them. 

“New patrons, good patrons,” said the one 
who played the guitar, and who was supposed to 
be a judge of people. The others gave an addi¬ 
tional glance at the pair, and the tenor placed 
himself so that during his song his face would be 
turned toward the lady. 

She wore a gray Gainsborough hat with gray 
feathers, and a handsome costume of gray silk. 
Gray Louis Quinze slippers and open-work stock¬ 
ings of the same color protruded from beneath 
her dress. Her hair was dyed a blond color, her 
cheeks and lips were thickly painted; only her 
eyes, those snapping black eyes, shone with their 
natural beauty. 

With her companion, an unattractive, elderly 
man, she carried on no conversation. He smoked, 
and drank in succession glass after glass of cham¬ 
pagne. 

The orchestra began to play. The woman in 
gray sat and listlessly gazed out upon the sea. 
The tenor started to sing. At his first note, she 



3» 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


raised her head and looked the singer inquiringly 
in the face. Her eyes examined his features, anx¬ 
iously, searchingly. He also was disquieted. 
There was something in the bearing, the actions 
of this woman, which seemed to him familiar. 
He sought in his memory, but found no solution. 

When the song was finished, he took the plate 
for the collection himself, although it was not 
usual for him to do so. He wished to see the lady 
in gray near by. 

She now sat alone. Her companion had gone 
outside to look for the automobile. The singer 
made a slight bow, and presented the plate. She 
put a gold piece on it, and said, as she looked him 
keenly in the eyes: “I would like you to sing a 
certain song, if you know it, an old Russian folk¬ 
song. It has for a refrain, 

‘AH my thoughts shall be 
Day and night of thee-’ ” 

“Aline!” It sounded like a cry—the man’s 
face was white. 

She slowly nodded her head. “Yes, Aline. I 
knew who you were when you sang the first note 
—but you, Aime, you failed to recognize me.” 

No, he had not known her. He stared at her in 
terror—so old, so faded, so broken in health. He 
could not speak. Horror and compassion para¬ 
lyzed his senses. No, that was not Aline. She 
whom he had loved, whom he had hated, for 
whom he had thrown himself into life’s obliterat¬ 
ing whirlpool, and remained there until all his 
hard-earned savings were spent, and he found 
himself one morning in the street, a poor miserable 



WHEN THE FLOWERS FADE 


39 


beggar. No; that was not the woman he had 
worshipped, his first and only love! that was a 
wretched and miserable creature on her way to. 
the grave. 

Aline seemed to read his thoughts. “ Yes, I am 
ill, Aime, more ill than any one suspects—I can¬ 
not live long. I am glad, however, that I have 
seen you again,—you are the only one who has 
ever been good to me, and it is you whom I have 
hurt—that seems always to be the way of the world 
—I can play my role a few weeks longer; then 
this man, also, with whom I am, will leave me; 
he is already becoming tired of me. Well, per¬ 
haps it is no worse to die on a hospital cot than 
anywhere else.” 

Aime could hardly suppress his tears. He had 
pictured this meeting again and again. He had 
planned how he would spurn her, how he would 
humble her, and, finally, how he would cast her 
aside in his scorn. Every indignity to which he 
had ever subjected a woman, every sneer, every 
brutality with which he had revenged himself on 
the sex, was intended for her—and now, as she 
sat there before him, a broken-down and dying 
creature, he felt nothing but compassion; kindly, 
forgiving compassion. 

Tenderly he took her hand: 

“Can I do anything for you, Aline?” 

She looked at him gratefully. “Nothing, Aime 
—only the song—if you will sing that. I should 
like to hear it once more before I die.” 

Aline’s companion approached the table. Aime 
took the plate and turned away. He consulted 
with his associates. They knew the song. 



40 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


The sympathetic notes of the melancholy air 
floated over the room. Aime’s voice swelled rich 
and pure! Never before had his listeners been so 
deeply and powerfully moved by his singing as 
now, when he sang with his whole soul to one 
alone. 

When he had finished, Aline and her companion 
arose. As they departed, the eyes of the boy and 
girl lovers of long ago met in reconciliation. 
With a long look they took leave of one another 
forever. 

The audience applauded and called so con¬ 
tinuously, da-capo , that the orchestra, in spite of 
Aime’s protest, were compelled to repeat. From 
outside could be heard the buzz and the rattle of 
the automobile. First slowly, then with increas¬ 
ing tempo, it was off for, Monte Carlo. But 
Aline’s sensitive ear heard not the clatter of the 
vehicle, nor the roar of the sea; it only heard that 
touching voice so well known in the past, which 
came to her again, and which she knew would be 
always with her till the last—hers—to console. 

“Then let come what may, 

Till the final day, 

When the sun sinks low, 

And to death we go, 

Every thought shall be 
Day and night of thee, 

When the sun sinks low, 

And to death we go.” 



LOVE 


gHE wrote him: 

Swear to me that you have never loved a 
woman as you love me; that your soul yearns 
jor me as a prisoner yearns jor freedom; that 
your, being thirsts jor me to the extreme oj 
torment; that you will waste away in despair 
if I do not come to you; that everything in 
you jor good or jor evil is permeated with a 
desire jor me; that you will be mine now and 
forever, in life and in death. Ij you can 
swear that, then call me: Come! I will obey, 
because I love you. 

Weeks went by, she received no answer. 

Then she wrote him: 

Swear to me that you will be able to love 
no other woman as you love me, that I alone 
can give you supreme happiness, that from 
this moment you are willing to belong to me 
body and soul; that you are mine to-day, and 
have long been only mine. Ij you can swear 
that, then call me: Come! I will obey, be¬ 
cause I love you much. 

Weeks went by, she received no answer. 

41 



42 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Thereupon she wrote him: 

Swear to me that you have suffered on my 
account, that your soul and your senses long 
more for me than for all the possessions of 
life; that you are sad for me and joyful for 
me; that I can give you all that is most 
precious. If you can swear that, then call 
me: Come! I will obey, because I love you 
so much that I suffer torments for you. 

Weeks went by, she received no answer. 

Now she wrote him: 

Tell me you are fond of me, that I can 
give you a little pleasure; that for a single 
day I can bring joy to your existence, and that 
you will not wholly forget me. If you can 
say that, then call me: Come! I will obey, 
because I love you mere than life. 

The following day he called her: “Come!” 

And as she stepped into his room with trem¬ 
bling, submissive love, he sank before her on his 
knees, and kissed the hem of her garment. 

“ I love you as I have loved no woman before, my 
soul yearns for you as a prisoner yearns for free¬ 
dom ; my being thirsts for you to the extreme of 
torment; I have wasted away in despair because 
you did not come; everything in me for good or 
for evil is permeated with a desire for you. Yours 
I will be now and forever, in life and in death, 
yours, only yours. 

“That I swear to you, my goddess, to-day, be¬ 
cause you love me as I love you—Come!” 



SPRINGTIME 



HAT is it you wish me to tell you ? The 


story of my first kiss? Do you know, 


mon ami , you seem to be just a little impudent. 

“It’s all the same to you, is it, as long as you 
accomplish your object? 

“And this object is to collect material for your 
book—‘The Maiden-Kiss of Celebrated Women.’ 

“I accept the adjective ‘celebrated’ with my 
very best thanks, but the rest of the idea I find not 
entirely to my taste. 

“That, however, makes no difference, you say, 
provided you get something spicy,—you claim that 
sort of thing draws; that is the main thing—it 
draws. 

“Yes, mon ami , but remember the recent fail¬ 
ure at the ‘Thalia,’ that surely was piquant 
enough. Exceptions prove the rule, you reply? 
You may be right. In any event, as an experi¬ 
ment, I will relate to you the story of my first kiss. 

“ It was an exception, my first kiss, since—it was 
not kissed at all. 

“How did that happen, you ask? 

“ It was lived, yes, mon ami y it was lived. 

“There; sit down in that arm-chair, and light 
your cigar, otherwise after the first five minutes 


43 



44 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


you will begin to fidget and perhaps roll up little 
paper balls, and any one who makes paper balls 
drives me out of my mind. Here are matches, ash 
tray, and now—attention! 

“It will not be spicy; that I can tell you at the 
start, for at seventeen years of age—dear me, 
what a little innocent I was! And let me tell you 
right here as to the morals of young girls. The 
impressions of women which men get at college, 
which they carefully preserve and which serve 
them as a standard to judge women afterward, 
are all wrong. 

“ I grew up in a large circle of young girls. We 
were most unrestrained in our confidences, and 
naturally all sorts of phases of life were diligently 
discussed. Our conjectures, however, were so 
ridiculous and so ingenuous, and I do not believe 
' that a single one of us girls had ever an indelicate 
thought. 

“To begin again. I was at that time seventeen 
years old, and was no longer sent to the nursery 
when visitors were expected in the evening. 

“ One day my father came home very much dis¬ 
turbed. He had met on the street an old friend of 
his who was in the city on a visit to his son. Of 
course, there was nothing remarkable in this fact 
alone, but—the son was an actor, and an actor at 
the Stadtheater. 

“The young man’s father had said he would 
call, and asked permission to bring his son with 
him. This was the cause of earnest consultation 
between my parents. 

“ Could they open their doors to an actor when 
they had a young daughter at home ? 



SPRINGTIME 


45 


“ My father decided in favor of the young artist, 
because he held his old friend in such esteem. He 
thought an actor from that family would be some¬ 
thing different. 

“ From the next room I heard the discussion and 
trembled with excitement. I knew the young 
actor’s name from the theatrical announcements, 
and had also seen him on the stage once or twice, 
with the result that I had woven a girlish romance 
about him. Shortly afterward, father and son 
left their cards, and they were later invited to 
dinner. 

“My mother had arranged that I should wear 
a white dress in the style of the Empire, and that 
my girlish plaits were to give way to a more 
grown-up fashion of head-dress. 

“In this manner, I was presented to our guests, 
unspoiled by the contact of the world, and with 
an expectant little heart, eager, and yet timid, to 
receive its first baptism of love. 

“The friend of my father greeted me cordially; 
Hans Roland made me a formal bow. He looked 
different from the Hans Roland I had Seen on the 
stage. The smoothly shaven face disappointed 
me at first, until I discovered that he had a beau¬ 
tiful mouth, and magnificent teeth. Then I 
missed the beard no more. 

“At table we drifted into a lively conversation; 
we joked one another just as if we had been old 
friends and Hans Roland an every-day young 
man belonging to our own society. 

“My parents also forgot every prejudice, and 
invited the young artist at his departure to visit 
us as often as he could. 



46 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


“He availed himself freely of this privilege, and 
was soon like one of the family. 

“ Between ourselves was kept up an almost con¬ 
tinuous banter, which occasionally developed into 
a petty quarrel. 

“Whether it was due to our youth that this 
state of affairs existed, I do not know. I only 
know that to-day when all folly has been put far 
behind me, this period stands out in my mind 
brighter and clearer than anything experienced 
before or since. 

“Most likely we would not have realized for a 
long time the actual condition of our feelings, had 
an incident not occurred to reveal it. 

“Hans came one afternoon when my mother 
had gone out. We were fooling, as usual, and I 
happened to knock over a vase. The water ran 
along the carpet. I hastily took a cloth to wipe it 
up, but Hans was quicker than I. There was a 
struggle in which I slipped and would have fallen 
heavily to the floor, had not Hans caught me. I 
felt his arms about me and gave him a startled 
look. He returned it. Our eyes for a moment 
met and remained fixed. 

“At that instant we knew we loved one another. 
Overcome, we gazed at one another—overcome, 
we remained in one another’s arms—a moment 
of exquisite forgetfulness. 

“I have since then, mon ami , listened to many 
a word of love, and have spoken many in re¬ 
turn. 

“None has been so eloquent, none so blissful, 
as that sublime and silent revelation of our young 
hearts. 



SPRINGTIME 


47 


“ Finally I aroused myself. Hans took both my 
hands. 

“Violet te, I love you.’ 

“ I put my head on his shoulder, he bent over as 
if to kiss me—when my mother opened the door. 

“Parents are not always in accord with the 
trend of a daughter’s affection. Mine were en¬ 
raged. They forbade Hans the house, and I got 
a lecture, as if I had committed a crime. It made 
little impression upon me. 

“That very evening I wrote Hans a long letter, 
and swore eternal fidelity. I also promised to 
meet him in secret, under one condition, he must 
give me his word of honor never to kiss me. Such 
a little stickler for propriety was I! 

“The dear boy made the promise and—has 
kept it. 

“Then began the time of our lives. Nearly 
every day we managed to see one another. We 
ran like two happy children through rain and 
snow, talked of what had happened, made plans 
for the future, and were convinced that our love 
would overcome every obstacle. 

“When we had to say farewell our hands re¬ 
fused to part, we. caressed one another with our 
eyes, and again and again exchanged wondrous 
glances in which our souls kissed. 

“Our lips have never touched. 

“After a month or two we had to part. Hans 
was sent to another city, and we have not met 
since. For some time we corresponded—letters 
full of longings and childish dreams—then they 
stopped also. 

“Later I met my husband and was happy with 



4 8 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


him. What my art is to me you already know. 
But the far-away, sweet springtime of my heart 
has remained to me the most treasured of fate’s 
gifts. 

“ So, my dear friend, this is the story of my first 
kiss, that marvellous kiss, which was not kissed 
at all, but was lived instead. And how true it is 
that this is the very best thing than can be said 
about a kiss.” 



AUTUMN 


D USTLING leaves fall to the ground. The wind 
* ^ picks them up and carries them along a lit¬ 
tle way, then drops them in the gutters or on the 
dust-heap—just as it happens. Human feet tread 
them down, dogs playfully snap them up, and let 
them go again; they are nothing—withered 
leaves. And yet they were once young and green, 
grew high up on hardy trees, waved joyfully in 
the spring zephyrs and believed it would always 
be so. 

Man admired them—shady, fresh foliage—and 
the snapping jaw of the dog could not reach them. 
They had played hide-and-seek with the sun¬ 
beams! Alas, even the sun cared fc them no 
more. Poor withered leaves! 

Margot pressed her forehead against the win¬ 
dow pane and gazed out. She always seemed to 
think such foolish things. “ Ridiculous,” said her 
mother, “Eccentric,” the father, and her brothers 
nicknamed her “Sentimental Margot.” If they 
only knew what she had been imagining concern¬ 
ing the leaves. Oh! what fun they would make 
of her. 

She, however, kept her thoughts to herself, and 
4 49 



50 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


had done so for a long time. The others concluded 
she was becoming more reasonable, but she had 
simply learned to be silent. 

Sometimes the desire came to her to write down 
what passed through her mind, but the necessary 
time was lacking. She needed it all for her du¬ 
ties. Not that there was actually so much to 
do, but it seemed to give her more trouble than 
it did others to look after the thousand little 
things about a household. Her thoughts were 
never on the subject; she saw all sorts of annoy¬ 
ances which did not exist, and on the other hand 
overlooked what ought to have been done. To¬ 
day she had to rummage through an old chest to 
find for her mother a certain roll of unused silk, 
but dreading the dust which she was sure to en¬ 
counter, she stood at the window and poetized the 
dry leaves instead of looking for the material. 

She heard a footstep on the stairs. She bent 
quickly over the chest and took out a few-pieces 
just as her mother opened the door. 

“Well, have you found the stuff?” Margot had 
luckily at that moment happened to come across 
the roll, so her mother took it and went out of the 
room again. The girl put back all the things 
which had been taken out, and in doing so dis¬ 
covered an album, which in her haste had been 
unnoticed. She sat down on the floor, took the 
book on her lap and turned over the leaves. It 
contained photographs of relatives, people long 
dead, or at least those whom Margot knew only 
by name. They looked at her out of the faded 
pictures, a mute company, banished to the garret 
for lack of affection. 



AUTUMN 


51 


Margot turned leaf after leaf. On the last page 
was a photograph of herself as a young girl. She 
did not recognize it at first; the fresh and smiling 
face, with its crown of plaits seemed so unreal to 
her. How old could she have been—eighteen 
years, perhaps? Yes, at that age she did wear 
her hair so. But had she ever such saucy, won¬ 
dering eyes. 

Margot slowly shook her head. Here was a 
something which hurt her. An indefinable feeling 
of pain arose within her—as if a harsh voice had 
called her out of a doze. A dazzling light fell 
upon her soul and illuminated there things which 
she half unconsciously had pushed into a dark 
corner. She stared at the picture before her and 
without the aid of a mirror saw another beside it. 
She knew the latter so well, she knew how numer¬ 
ous were the white threads in the strands of her 
hair, those strands, alas, now so short and thin, 
she knew the small deep lines at the side of her 
eyes, and she knew, especially, the tired eyes them¬ 
selves, in which there was no more wondering and 
scarcely even a question. What had done this? 
So unattractive, so old. What? Life? No, she 
had never lived! Never! And all of a sudden she 
realized it. From never having lived had she be¬ 
come so desolate, so coated with dust. No great 
joy, no great sorrow, not even a task! 

She remembered well the ambitious plans she 
had had at eighteen years of age. She wanted to 
make her mark in the world, to be something, 
outside of her home, for herself alone. They had 
laughed her out of it. They had told her of the 
man who would come to marry her, of the tiny 



52 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


children, of the happy motherhood, and until that 
time she was to content herself at home, to lighten 
her mother’s burdens and brighten with her 
youth her father’s life and to wait. 

She had remained at home; she had lightened 
and brightened; she also waited—seventeen long 
years. In this way had her youth gone by, her 
mind been dulled, her heart kept empty. Noth¬ 
ing had presented itself, only a tiredness; limitless 
and inconsolable. Day followed day, week fol¬ 
lowed week, month, month, year, year, an endless 
chain of gray monotony. 

That was her life—that. And the future ? 

Margot’s eyes opened wide, filled with horror 
and dread. The path she was following had not 
yet come to an end. It stretched out before her 
just as bare; just as dusty—who knows how 
long? 

How could she stand it? The desperate out¬ 
look made her shudder. But no, she could not do 
that —courage would fail her—energy as well— 
and it would grieve her parents. 

Her parents! A feeling of resentment arose 
within her. Bah! Her parents! Why should she 
consider them? They were the cause of her mis¬ 
ery, they had done nothing to make her life 
happy but, on the other hand, had allowed her to 
become embittered. In fact, they considered it 
almost dishonor that no man had ever wooed her. 
Lately when a Professor, a widower with five chil¬ 
dren had moved into the ground floor, and in 
paying the conventional visit had directed his con¬ 
versation mainly toward Margot, her parents had 
become so affable. It nauseated her to think of it. 



AUTUMN 


53 


Then the Professor was invited several times, and 
after each -visit her parents teased her and called 
her jokingly: “Frau Professor.” 

But when the Professor went away for his sum¬ 
mer holidays without declaring himself, they 
treated her with a contemptuous forbearance, 
which was indeed mortifying. Whether she would 
have been willing to take the middle-aged man 
with five children, no one thought necessary to 
ask—that was a foregone conclusion. And in this 
hour of self-examination Margot was forced to 
admit that she would have done so, without con¬ 
ditions. 

To be sure, it was not the felicity of which the 
eighteen-year-old girl had dreamed. That one 
would have shaken her head and laughed, oh, so 
merrily! But the one going on toward forty had 
forgotten how to laugh. She could only acquiesce 
and grasp thankfully the hand which offered her 
a life’s task. 

Margot rested her head on her hand and 
thought. This time she failed to hear her moth¬ 
er’s footstep as the latter entered the room out of 
breath. Only at the sound of her voice did Mar¬ 
got look up. 

“ Child, where in the world are you ? I have 
been looking for you all over the house. I thought 
you were downstairs long ago, and here I find you 
still sitting and dreaming. 

“What have you got there? Oh, the old al¬ 
bum! Put it away, and come with me, I have 
something to say to you.” 

Margot looked at her mother in astonishment. 
She was so excited, so unlike her usual self. 



54 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


“What is the matter?” she anxiously inquired. 
“ Has anything happened ? ” 

Her mother put her arm about her and whis¬ 
pered: “The Professor has returned. He has 
spoken to us both. He is now talking with your 
father—Margot, my daughter, he has asked for 
your hand.” 

And, with a tenderness which was strange to 
Margot, her mother kissed her and patted her 
cheek. Margot was motionless, as if stunned. 

At length she freed herself. With a sudden im¬ 
pulse she threw the album into the chest and 
closed the lid. Then she straightened herself up 
and stretched forward her arms with a deep sigh 
of relief. 

She had not as yet uttered a single word. Her 
mother was becoming anxious, having antici¬ 
pated a different reception for her message. 

“Child! Child! Surely you will ^accept him!” 

Margot looked at her with a peculiar expression 
in her sad eyes, and said solemnly: 

“Yes, mother, I accept him, and will make him 
happy, since I feel I owe him my life!” 



FLANNEL 


P LSA ROTTMAN stood before the mirror 

. brushing her hair with that studied atten¬ 
tion which she invariably gave to the care of her 
person. 

She did not even turn her head when, after a 
gentle knock, the door of her bedroom opened. 
She knew it was “Auntie,” her friend’s little old 
mother, who came conscientiously each morning 
to see how the indulged guest had slept. 

She knew also that the old lady would give her 
a sly, but at the same time a scrutinizing, look, 
directed toward the low-cut lace negligb, which 
was only held together on the shoulder by ribbons; 
toward her bare white arms, her neck and her 
blond hair which fell in waves down her back. 

She knew also that with each morning Frau 
Steierli was still doubtful whether to be shocked 
or charmed, and that this wavering between two 
such different sensations exerted a secret fascina¬ 
tion upon the old lady. 

Elsa Rottman was a writer. Where opportunity 
presented itself to study human nature, she 
availed herself of it, objectively, keenly. Her 
power of observation was well known, and she 
55 



56 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


utilized it where she could. But outside of her 
calling she was a most subjective person, ready to 
receive the slightest admiration called forth by her 
beauty. For this reason the morning visits of 
“Auntie” had a double charm. The conversa¬ 
tion was usually intermittent—when there was 
nothing particular to be said they both kept si¬ 
lent; but to-day the old lady seemed to be in a 
talkative mood. She chatted about all sorts of 
things, even of the work which had already been 
done on the farm that morning. 

During all this time her glances were directed 
with more and more frequency toward Elsa’s 
beautiful arms and scantily concealed bosom, 
when all of a sudden she asked abruptly, 

“Why in the world, Elsa, don’t you marry?’*’ 
The latter continued brushing her hair a mo¬ 
ment longer, and then said: 

“My dear Frau Steierli, that is a difficult ques¬ 
tion. If I should answer it with absolute truth, I 
don’t think you would understand me. In spite 
of that, however, I will do so; in the first place, 
because I see you have had the matter in mind for 
a long time, and then in addition, so that you may 
not take any more trouble to have for me with 
each Sunday’s roast, a new suitor.” 

Elsa sat down on the edge of the bed and 
crossed her feet, so that not only a dainty slipper 
could be seen, but also a fair amount of silk stock¬ 
ing, together with a shapely limb. Then she 
clasped her hands over her knee, and looked sau¬ 
cily at the old lady. 

“Let me tell you, my dear Auntie, the principal 
reason is, I can find no one good enough for me. 



FLANNEL 


57 


At least, I have never yet found any one whom I 
considered so either in body or mind. 

“Now, of course, you think, ‘what a very con¬ 
ceited person!’ but in that you are mistaken— 
for it is not what I have to give which seems 
to me of such value, but the way in which I 
would give it.” 

“Is it not true that some mornings here you 
have been rather shocked by my unconvention¬ 
ality, and yet at the same time attracted by what 
you saw?” 

“Very well!—I on my side, am convinced that 
in your youth you had just as luxuriant hair, just 
as beautiful arms and just as fine a figure. I am 
also firmly convinced that you wore your hair 
brushed back from your forehead and tightly 
braided in a prim little plait, that you covered 
your neck to the throat and your arms to the 
elbow with a flannel undervest, even before your 
own husband, and that it never occurred to you 
to attract him in any other way than by the beauty 
of the face. Isn’t that true? How could it be 
otherwise? The German housewife and flannel 
are one and the same. Flannel is, so to speak, the 
guarantee of virtue. The more flannel the higher 
the moral plane. That is true German; only sin 
presents a fascinating exterior. And on this point 
I could swear that there are in France just as 
many proper women as with us, but certainly not 
so much flannel.” 

“ Don’t take this in a joking way. I am serious. 
Flannel is of far more importance than you have 
any idea of. It covers not only the body—it cov¬ 
ers the soul as well. A woman who is enveloped 




58 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


to her throat in such material has ‘flannel’ 
thoughts also.” 

“Whoever cannot feel at liberty to delight in 
the beauty of her body, can give no liberty either 
to her mind or to her soul. Cover up everything! 
Hide everything—both here and there!” 

“What pleasure must the nymphs have ex¬ 
perienced in dipping their naked bodies in the 
limpid water and afterward permitting the sun to 
dry the moist skin! How horrible is the bathing 
costume—again of flannel. One who cannot do 
without it, can never have an original, a personal, 
an ‘unclothed’ idea.” 

“That is another case where man has the ad¬ 
vantage. He is not so stupid as to cover himself 
from head to foot with a clinging rag when he 
wishes to swim—but woman must creep into a 
bathing suit; a sight to run away from. It nau¬ 
seates me to think of it!” 

“But of course that is proper. Ugly women, 
who believe they must be ashamed of their bodies, 
have invented this fashion of propriety, and jeal¬ 
ous men have ratified it and stamped it with their 
seal.” 

Elsa had talked herself into excitement. She 
could no longer sit still. With a sudden impulse 
she shook back her hair and began to walk up 
and down the room. 

Frau Steierli’s mild eyes followed her. She was 
at a loss to understand. Finally she asked: 

“ But what has that to do with your not wishing 
to marry ? ” 

Elsa stopped. 

“That is simply the result of ‘flannel morality.’ 



FLANNEL 


59 


If / marry, I shall give my husband everything, 
without limit, body and mind. Nothing shall be 
kept back, nothing doled out sparingly, full meas¬ 
ure in all things.” 

“But where is the man who can stand this? 
Only one in a thousand knows that freedom 
makes strength. Most of them think that a woman 
who gives knowingly and lavishly is flighty. The 
flannel of their mothers’ and grandmothers’ is sa¬ 
cred to them. They think that matrimonial virtue 
is guarded from temptations by being wrapped in 
flannel.” 

“But a woman who makes no pretence to the 
man she loves of concealing her body and hon¬ 
estly uncovers her soul as well, her bad thoughts 
and her good, her evil desires and her good, she 
is to be suspected. Therefore, my dear little 
Auntie, I am waiting to marry until I find a man 
who is strong enough to trust a woman who does 
not wear flannel.” 

“I would rather this very minute jump out of 
the window than give myself to a man whom I 
did not love with all my heart, and, what is more, 
whom I could not place upon a pedestal. That is 
my code.” 

Elsa was silent. Frau Steierli slowly and 
thoughtfully shook her head. She was unable to 
understand what the young woman meant. In 
her early years people were much more simple 
and yet were happy in the possession of a husband 
and loving children. 

So, after the habit of persons who measure the 
correctness of living by their personal experi¬ 
ences, she judged she could give the most effective 



6o 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


lesson to the young friend of her daughter by re¬ 
lating the events of her own life. 

“My dream was always to live in the country. 
To have an estate, or even a small farm, was my 
highest ambition. For some time I thought my 
desire was going to be gratified. While on a visit 
to a friend I met a young man who had such a 
property. We liked one another and wished to 
marry. When I returned home, however, my 
parents had chosen another suitor, one who could 
enter my father’s business, so I said nothing of 
the young landowner, knowing well that any op¬ 
position would only cause trouble.” 

“I married the man chosen for me, although in 
the beginning it was hard. Then the children 
came and I forgot. Only the eldest, Kathie, has 
the longing for the country. She alone inherited 
the love for country occupations. And now she 
is married to a landowner of better position and 
richer than I ever dreamed of getting. Every 
summer I can visit her for a couple of months, and 
have in my old age what I wished for in my youth. 
Yes! Yes, Elsa, dear, that is life. If one only has 
patience everything will come right in time.” 

The old lady nodded contentedly, fully satis¬ 
fied with her lot. She did not see the two dark, 
fiery eyes fixed upon her, full of horror and com¬ 
passion. How enthusiastic youth shrinks back 
from this dull resignation of age! 

It seemed to Elsa as if suddenly a gray mist had 
risen up before the sun. Was the old lady right? 
Was this really the end of all desires, all longings, 
this placid submission, this miserable content¬ 
ment. 



FLANNEL 


6l 


No, no! That could not be. It was surely 
only the weak submission of an age now passing 
away. 

But suppose after all she were right; she and 
her flannel. 

Elsa with a shiver drew her hair forward over 
her shoulders. 

The old lady sat and nodded. 

“Yes, yes! that is life-” 

There was a bang at the door, and before Elsa 
could say “Come in” it was pushed open. 

A young girl with the lankiness and awkward¬ 
ness of thirteen years, but with animation in her 
eyes, stood on the sill. 

She held in her hand an open book. “Oh, 
cousin Elsa! See what I have found in the book 
you gave me! So beautiful! So wonderful! 
Listen!” 

And full of enthusiasm, with trembling voice 
and eyes sparkling with fire, little Elsa recited: 

“Ideas that savor 
Of weakness and waver, 

Timid refraining, 

Childish complaining, 

No grief restrain; 

No freedom gain. 

Forces contending, 

On self depending, 

Slow to unbend, 

Firm to the end, 

Brave against odds, 

Armed by the gods.” 

With a cry of ecstasy which rang clear from the 
heart, Elsa clasped her little friend in her arms. 

Gone now were the dreaded shadows which 
oppressed her with their cowardly forebodings. 



62 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Smilingly she stretched out her hand to the old 
lady. 

“ My dear Auntie, no! As you see it, life cannot 
be. That may have belonged to times gone by. 
The present is braver and happier; and the fut¬ 
ure—” she drew little Elsa closer to her—“The 
future will be more forceful still.” 



FOLK-LEGEND 



Supreme Being had created the World, 


1 and was resting from his labors. The 
waters surged, the dry land arose in lofty peaks 
hooded with white, the sheltered valleys were gay 
with flowers, and juicy herbs sent forth their ten¬ 
der shoots. 

Man and beast enjoyed peacefully the posses¬ 
sion of the young earth. Abundance was every¬ 
where and the struggle for food and covering yet 
to come. 

The Almighty Being surveyed his work, and 
rejoiced that it was good. He wished, however, 
to hear from all living things that they were con¬ 
tent, so he summoned them before him and asked 
of them if each was happy, or was some desire 
still ungratified. With one accord all had re¬ 
quests to make, and the Kindly Being granted 
every one; so desirous was he that all should be 
happy. Thereafter he dismissed them and re¬ 
mained alone in meditation, lost in wonder that 
among the thousands and thousands no single 
creature was quite content. 

Upon looking up he saw sitting on 'the steps of 



64 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


his throne, a tiny grayish bird, whose intelligent 
eyes were fixed upon him. 

“What seekest thou,” said the Almighty One. 

“You called me, Lord, therefore have I come.” 

“Did I not listen to thy request? On this ac¬ 
count art thou still here ? ” 

“I have no request to make.” 

“What!” said the Master, “art thou abso¬ 
lutely satisfied?” 

“Yes, Almighty One.” 

“Then blessed be thou,” spoke the Master, 
“for thou hast brought me joy. In return for thy 
modesty thou shalt not go from me unre¬ 
quited.” 

“ What can I give to thee, since so little remains ? 
The rose has asked for thorns to protect its beauty, 
the eagle for strength of wing to carry it on high, 
the butterfly for gaudy colors, the violet for sweet 
perfume that it may not go unnoticed. I have 
given to all, yes, to all, what all desired. And now 
what have I left for thee? Besides, I know not 
what will give thee happiness—so hie thee far and 
wide, observe well both great and small and find 
something to delight thee. Then come to me 
again, ask and it shall be given.” 

Joyfully the little bird took wing and flew away. 

Time passed by and the Almighty One had al¬ 
most forgotten the insignificant creature, when it 
again one day sat upon the steps of the throne. 

“And now,” he asked, with a kindly smile, 
“hast thou discovered something?” 

“Yes,” replied the tiny bird, “at last I have a 
wish. I flew away as you commanded. I saw 
sublimity and beauty, greatness and goodness, but 




FOLK-LEGEND 


65 


they allured me not—they had no charm for me. 
But one evening, after I had flown far and was 
wearily resting upon a blossoming twig, and about 
to sleep, I heard footsteps. Along the way which 
led past the tree came two persons, a man and a 
maiden. Their hands were joined, and they 
looked into one another’s eyes, but they spoke not. 
They sat themselves down in the grass under my 
tree, and the youth- lay his head in the maiden’s 
lap. Then they began to speak.” 

“‘Look, my beloved! As this tree under which 
we rest, so is my love for thee. Flowers will deck 
it and each will be an homage to thee. New blos¬ 
soms and new fruit will my love ever bear. It will 
grow fuller and stronger, will protect thee, and 
thou shalt be blessed.’” 

“‘And thou,’ said the maiden, ‘seest thou the 
tiny spring which waters the roots of the tree. 
Like that will my love refresh and strengthen thee 
for thy life’s work. Its waters will never cease to 
flow in the heat of summer nor in the icy cold of 
winter. Oh, my beloved, I put my life in thy 
charge, to do with it what thou wilt,’ and she bent 
toward him and kissed him.” 

“Then I slipped lightly away, and did not stop 
until I reached here. 

“This, therefore, is my wish: What I heard the 
youth and maiden whisper, what I saw gleaming 
in their eyes, as well as the strangely beautiful 
music of their voices, which made my heart beat 
faster, Almighty One, teach me to interpret that 
in song.” 

The bird was silent, and the face of the Creator 
of the World shone with a marvellous light, and 
5 



66 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


as he spoke the tone of his voice was like the dis¬ 
tant chimes of silver bells. 

“Blessed be thou, my little creature, thy wish is 
granted.” 

The tiny bird flew off into the world, and sang 
its wondrous song—men call it the Nightingale. 



STORIES FROM FOUR 
LANGUAGES 


FANTASIES 

FROM THE FRENCH OF 

Catulle Mendes 
























-I ' I 













. 






















- 











































































































































FANTASIES 


I 


The Futility of Example 


T a time when I was still so artless that I seemed 



** barely as old as a well-matured woodpigeon, 
I made an excursion into the future in the com¬ 
pany of a young gentleman, gayly attired, whom 
at the time I did not recognize, but who was, as 
I afterward learned, none other than his Serene 
Highness, Prince Cupid. 

We chanced to meet on our journey the very 
type of a vagabond, whether vagrant or criminal, 
ragged, dishevelled and repulsive, whom the 
police were ill-treating and with no very gentle 
words were pushing along before them. 

I drew near to the poor wretch. I seemed to 
discern in his colorless eyes the recollection of a 
former joy; I asked him what he had done to be 
reduced to such a pitiable state. 

“I have loved,” was his reply. 

A little further, on the same road, we met a crip¬ 
pled beggar—a crutch under each arm—strug¬ 
gling painfully along in his filthy rags. He had 



7o 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


lost his hair and was without teeth. In spite of 
the fact that he was probably not aged, his eyes 
were like those of a centenarian. I drew near to 
the mendicant. It seemed to me that there was 
still on his pale lips the trace- of a former smile. 
I asked him what he had done to bring upon him¬ 
self this degree of ruin and degradation. 

“I have loved,” was his reply. 

At a turn of the road we came upon a man, with 
a cord about his neck, hanging from the limb of 
a tree. It was a frightful sight on that beautiful 
morning. The face was distorted, the tongue 
swollen and protruding from the mouth, and, 
though not quite dead, he was more horrifying 
than a corpse. 

I drew near to the suicide. It seemed to me 
that his forehead still shone with a former tri¬ 
umph. I asked him what mishap had led him to 
desire, and to seek, eternity. 

“I have loved,” was his reply. 

Then the young Prince with whom I journeyed 
toward the future turned to me with this ques¬ 
tion: 

“You are sixteen, you will to-morrow encounter 
the mysteries of existence. What will you do, 
child, in life?” 

“ I shall love,” was my reply. 



FANTASIES 


71 


II 

The Lost Stars 

“ JV/T ONSIEUR,” said my valet de chambre , just 

* * as I was completing the fifth verse of a 
sonnet, “there are two angels without who wish 
to speak with Monsieur.” 

“Have they given you their cards?” I asked. 

“I have them here, Monsieur.” 

On one I read “Helial,” on the other “Japh- 
ael.” Two angels without question! 

“Ask them to enter,” I said. 

It was not without pleasure that I received 
these visitors of quality. They were clad in large 
wings, each made of seven plumes, on which 
scintillated through a soft down, light as the mist 
of an early morning, the seven colors of the rain¬ 
bow. What one could see of their bodies resem¬ 
bled transparent snow faintly tinged with pink. 
I begged them, with a wave of the hand, to be 
seated, and inquired politely the motive which 
gave me the honor of their acquaintance. 

“We will be brief,” said Helial. “Sixteen years 
ago, one beautiful night in July, we were playing 
at billiards, Japhael and myself, on the green 
carpet of the sky.” 

“Pardon,” I interrupted, “I thought the sky 
was blue!” 

“It is blue in certain parts of its immensity; 
but in others, particularly in those which border 
upon the towns and the open country of Persia, it 
is of a green most agreeable to the eye.” 



72 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


I did not reply. Helial continued: 

“We had for balls, stars, the most beautiful we 
could find.” 

“And for cues?” I inquired. 

“The tails (queues) of comets. Naturally, the 
game was most interesting. I was on the point of 
winning, when with a violent stroke I sent two 
balls over the edge.” 

“Over the edge?” 

“Yes, of the horizon. It was a sad misfortune, 
for you can well understand that two stars less in 
heaven is a matter of grave importance. We were 
warned by the ruler of the heavens that we would 
no more be permitted to participate in the joys 
of paradise until we had recovered and put back 
into place the two lost stars.” 

“You can imagine the search yre have made 
these sixteen years, up and down the earth, where 
to all appearance the stars had fallen. But all 
our quests have, alas, been in vain.” 

“We were going to resign ourselves to eternal 
exile, when we heard of the incomparable eyes of 
a young girl, who is your sweetheart, if one can 
believe rumors which are abroad. Everything 
seemed to indicate that in place of mortal eyes 
she had the celestial lights we sought, and let us 
hope she will be willing to return them.” 

I felt myself strangely perplexed. The mere 
idea that any one should take from me the eyes 
of my dearly beloved one caused me an alarming 
inquietude. But it was in my power to aid two 
angels to recover their divine patrimony! I sum¬ 
moned Mademoiselle Mesange and explained to 
her in few words the situation. 



FANTASIES 


73 


She neither appeared surprised nor troubled, 
but after having reflected a few seconds, she 
turned toward the visitors and, raising her eyelids 
as much as possible, said, “Look, beautiful an¬ 
gels, and tell me if you recognize your stars.” 

They drew near. They examined, with the 
greatest care, the clear eyes of Mesange. For 
some moments they communicated one with the 
other in a low voice, as judges who exchange their 
opinions. Then Helial said: “No, these are not 
the luminaries which disappeared sixteen years 
ago. Ours, although they were at their best that 
July night, were neither as brilliant nor as spark- 
ling.” 

Thereupon they departed with a dejected air. 
I pitied them with all my heart, delighted as I 
was that they had not robbed me of my love. 

And Mesange ? She burst into laughter. 
“Have I not tricked them well?” she said. “It 
is true—my mother has told it me a hundred 
times—how, shortly after my birth, two stars fell 
through the open window straight between my 
eyelids. But while the angels were observing me, 
I thought of that moment when for the first time, 
my love, you imprinted a kiss upon my lips, and 
I knew full well that the recollection of that de¬ 
light would make my eyes, those stars of former 
times, more brilliant than the most beautiful 
among the heavenly bodies.” 




74 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


III 


The Message Gone Astray 
NE day, under a bright April sky, dotted here 



^ and there with light, fleecy clouds, driven 
rapidly along by fitful puffs of wind, a swallow 
alighted upon the weather-vane of a chimney, and 
I confided to this bird all my lover’s vows, all my 
dreams and all my cherished hopes, bidding him 
carry them to the anxious maiden, whom he 
might find seated at her window, awaiting the 
coming of some one. 

He flew away into space! but he was a faithless 
messenger, for never has the maiden known the 
desires of my heart, nor the longings which I felt 
for her. So in vain one day under a bright April 
sky, dotted here and there with light, fleecy clouds, 
driven rapidly along by fitful puffs of wind, a 
swallow alighted upon the weather-vane of a 
chimney. 

To whom had he taken my message? Was it 
to one who turned it to ridicule? Was it to one 
who was softened by it, but whose name I shall 
never know ? 

What is most sad is that I myself have forgotten, 
and naught remains of the tender anxieties and 
illusions which haunted my soul one day under 
the bright April sky, dotted here and there wkh 
light, fleecy clouds, driven rapidly along by fitful 
puffs of wind. 



FANTASIES 


75 


IV 


The Golden Key 


HILE wandering through the Palace of 



v v Dreams I chanced upon a little golden 
key. I was sure it had been fashioned to open 
some mysterious door, behind which, like Para¬ 
dise revealed, there at last awaited me those de¬ 
lights, unknown and unimagined, for which my 
soul eternally yearned. 

I have tried on all things closed, on all things 
hoarded, on all the hopes of love or glory, too 
fond or too sublime to realize, the little golden 
key which I found when wandering through the 
Palace of Dreams and felt it was made to open 
some mysterious door. 

At last, out of pity, a passer-by addressed me. 
“Your efforts are in vain, poor man; you were 
born too late! The mystery, where you would 
have found the reality of your illusion faintly con¬ 
ceived—the mystery to which this key would have 
gained you access was the heart of a woman who 
has been dead a thousand years.” 

I have, however, retained the useless trinket, 
and the sweetest hours of my life are those in 
which I weep over the little golden key, which I 
found while wandering through the Palace of 
Dreams. 



76 


RETOLD IN ENG'LISH 


V 

The Gijt Appropriate 

“ OTHIS ring, so precious, of finely chiselled gold, 

1 but with setting unfilled, I offer you, my 
love, as a parting gift.” 

“Oh! how beauteous!” said my love, as it en¬ 
circled her finger. “An artist, most adept, has 
traced these delicate chasings on the metal. But 
is it not right that there should be inserted here a 
diamond or pearl or a fiery ruby, like a drop of 
crimson blood freshly shed?” 

“This ring, so precious, of finely chiselled gold, 
but with setting unfilled, I offer you as a parting 
gift.” 

“But think, my love, how like yourself! For 
in your body, miraculous work of art, and under¬ 
neath your bosom which rivals the whiteness of 
marble—aye, whiter than the lily, there beats no 
heart for me, no heart for any one. Oh, vanity 
of love! And so the gift which my melancholy 
gratitude prompted is just—this ring, so precious, 
of finely chiselled gold, but with setting unfilled.” 


VI 

A Feast As Avenger 

'THE lovers, innumerable, alas! whom she had 
* preferred to me, were regaling themselves at 
a feast provided by my courtesy! The fare 
seemed to them so fine that they complimented 



FANTASIES 


77 


me, saying, “How delicate are those viands, and 
of what exquisite flavor this lacryma-christi! ” 

As, in their confident imbecility, they had no 
suspicion of the sinister plan which, on account of 
a door too often unbolted, filled my jealous soul— 
these lovers innumerable, alas! whom she had 
preferred to me, were regaling themselves at a 
feast provided by my courtesy. 

But at dessert they grew pale, writhed with 
pain, and rolled under the table in the throes of 
death; for I gave them to eat of her purity, her 
modesty, her vows of eternal affection, and their 
glasses had been filled with her genuine tears and 
the pure honey of her kisses—and they died, 
every one, poisoned, in frightful pain, these lovers 
innumerable, alas! whom she had preferred to 
me. 


VII 

Prudent Non-curiosity 

T DO not care to see the other side of the stars! 
* Who knows what they hide behind their visi¬ 
ble splendor ? 

Perhaps there are precipices of darkness, 
maelstroms of lava, fearful, accumulations of 
worlds—devastated—extinguished—dead! 

They resemble, perhaps, fantastic dominos at 
a ball: a thin “loup” of bright silk across the 
face and, at the back of the head, a hideous grin¬ 
ning mask! 

I should not care to see the other side of the 



78 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


stars. Who knows what they hide behind their 
visible splendor ? 

Your eyes, my little- one, are stars as well— 
stars infinitely clear, where glistens, in innocent 
blue, the awakening of young hope. Who knows 
what is behind their impenetrable transparency? 
Perhaps strange desires and guilty dreams, per¬ 
haps remorse already- 

I do not care to see the other side of the stars! 


VIII 


The Wall 


WALL hard, bare and impenetrable—this 



** is what I encountered when I split with a 
furious blow of my fist the canvas, where a clever 
artist had painted the immensity of the sea troub¬ 
led by sails, and the expanse of the sky deified 
with stars. 

It irritated me, this counterfeit vision of the in¬ 
finite, represented by blues, greens and golds, 
purchasable at an every-day color shop. A wall 
hard, bare and impenetrable—this is what I en¬ 
countered when I split the canvas with a furious 
blow of my fist, 

But, anger satisfied, my melancholy was none 
the less bitter, and, with fingers bruised, I asked 
myself sorrowfully if a man whose fist were 
powerful enough to break through the actual 
horizon would not find also, beyond the sea, the 
sky and the stars, a wall hard, bare and impene¬ 
trable ? 



THE FIRST MASS 


FROM THE SPANISH OF THE PRIEST 


Louis Coloma 



THE FIRST MASS 


CHAPTER I 

TN Andalusia sudden and violent storms are fre- 
* quently encountered, lasting only as long, 
however, as an angry look on the face of a child. 
As soon as passion has passed, a smile breaks 
through the tears, and while in one spot rain pours 
from the clouds, only a short distance away there 
is joyful sunshine accompanied by a brilliant 
rainbow. 

The Andalusian folk, who are authority on such 
matters, say at these times: “The devil is quarrel¬ 
ling with his grandmother.” 

One of these storms, as short as it was terrible, 
like everything in life which oversteps nature’s 
limits and enters the domain of passion, burst over 

the hamlet of Z-on the night of the fifteenth 

of July, the eve of the fete day of the Virgin of 
Carmel, the patron saint of the Asylum of the 
Poor. Storm and rain had extinguished the light 
which burned in the church-tower, while wet and 
limp hung the flags and streamers used for decora- 
6 81 



82 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


tion. The force of the storm, however, was not 
sufficient to silence the bells, which kept on ringing 
to announce for the following day the anniversary 
of the patron saint, as well as the celebration of a 
first mass. 

At intervals the storm abated, as if wearied by 
its own fierceness, the thunder ceased to roar, and 
the clouds parted like two gladiators who separate 
to gain fresh force and then rush upon each other 
anew. One hears the church bells which dominate 
the storm and disregard the thunder. They ring 
incessantly, like the voice of a man inspired by the 
truth and supported by reason, who, joyful in his 
belief, cries to his fellow-men “Hallelujah! Halle¬ 
lujah !” 

In a narrow street of the old part of the town lies 
the Asylum of Carmel. Proud, and despising all 
pomp, it turns its back to a castle, the abode of 
Spanish grandees, and fronts upon a square sur¬ 
rounded by the lowly dwellings of the poor. Its 
portal is crowned by this solemn inscription, “For 
the temporal welfare of the poor and the eternal 
welfare of the rich.” 

Against its walls, like a swallow’s nest, is seen a 
tiny whitewashed house, perfumed by the migno¬ 
nette growing on the edge of the roof. The hal¬ 
lowed laurel twigs tied by two bands of blue ribbon 
to the balcony give the house a holiday appear¬ 
ance. This is the home of Don Bias, the chap¬ 
lain, his sister Mariquita, and his nephew Pepito. 

The evening with which our story begins the 
humble dwelling was shining with cleanliness, and 
within reigned that order and care with which a 
loving creature prepares everything to serve and 



THE FIRST MASS 


83 


please a beloved one whose coming is anxiously- 
awaited. 

Pepito, the cherished nephew, was expected, he 
who had grown up under the care of these two old 
people as a lightsome rosebush under the shadow 
of two dark cypresses. The helpless orphan 
whose innocent childhood had been guarded by 
the love of his uncle and aunt had grown up a 
blameless youth and was now a model priest. 

Little Pepito, as both old people called him, had 
just taken sacred orders at Cadiz, and was now 
coming to celebrate his first mass in the Carmel 
church where his uncle was chaplain. The latter 
was a brother of the order of San Francisco, one 
of those simple men whom the world half pitifully, 
half contemptuously, calls “God’s brave souls,” 
and who in fact are so pure that God gladly ac¬ 
cepts them as his own. For thirty years he had 
filled his toilsome and modest office with the zeal 
which is the twin sister of brotherly love, with the 
diligence which elevates every virtue, with the 
silent self-sacrifice which so few understand, and 
which is the characteristic trait of all wise men, 
saints, martyrs, and the culumniated Spanish 
clergy. 

Nevertheless, Don Bias was no great man of 
letters, he was unlearned in all Latin other than 
his own mass, and no prayers were known to him 
except those of his own order; but how peaceful 
was his soul, how tranquil his conscience, how 
even his temper, how loving his heart, which, like 
that of his patron saint, San Francisco, on whom 
he called at all hours, glowed with that flame of 
deepest brotherly affection which finds for every 



8 4 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


sorrow a consolation and knows for every pain a 
remedy—like the pelican, capable of opening its 
breast to give its own blood when there is nothing 
else to give. 

How sublime and yet how comprehensive was 
the philosophy of this aged man who loved God 
and his neighbor, and believed the religion whose 
disciple he was to be embraced in the two words, 
“ Padre Maestro.” And though many ridiculed 
this humble divine, no one denied him respect and 
love, for he possessed the unassuming preeminence 
of virtue which filters its way to recognition with¬ 
out hurting, and not that arrogant superiority of 
talent which asserts itself through force and is cer¬ 
tain to create envy by humiliating others. 

Don Bias had lived many years alone, when one 
day a woman crossed his threshold carrying in her 
arms a tiny child whose little face smiled out from 
beneath a black-edged cap, as innocence always 
smiles upon misfortune which it does not know. 
This woman was Mariquita, sister of the chaplain, 
and the child the son of a younger, and recently 
deceased, sister whose husband had disappeared. 
Don Bias opened his arms, his heart, and his 
scanty purse to the sister and orphan asking asy¬ 
lum, and now began the life of these two beings 
under the shelter of his priestly robes: the life of 
the sister like the peaceful quiet of the declining 
day, and that of the child like the radiant joy of the 
breaking dawn. 

There was, however, in this humble household 
a strange mystery, which sometimes caused Don 
Bias’s smile to vanish and silenced the grumbling 
of Mariquita. She had one day received from 



THE FIRST MASS 


85 


Ceuta (directed to her old address) a letter, whose 
cover with its many postmarks attested the number 
of places to which it had been sent before it arrived 
at its destination. The two old people locked 
themselves in the room of the chaplain and re¬ 
mained there fully three hours. When Don Bias 
appeared he was deathly pale and did not smile 
again for eight days, and Doha Mariquita went 
about for a whole week with her eyes red and 
swollen. 

Since that time, every year at Easter-tide Doha 
Mariquita made up out of coarse materials a bun¬ 
dle of men’s clothes, emptied her money-box, in 
which through a thousand little economies she had 
collected a small sum, purchased numerous brands 
of government cigars, and making these into one 
package gave them over to her brother. The lat¬ 
ter mounted into a “calesa,” took the road to 
Cadiz, and remained away from six to eight days. 
No one knew, however, where he went, or what 
was the object of his journey. 

“Where has uncle gone ?” asked Pepito of Doha 
Mariquita, with the natural curiosity of a child. 
The latter looked with unspeakable love and ten¬ 
derness upon him, but answered sharply: “To 
count the monks. They say there is one missing.” 

Once Pepito put the same question to his uncle. 
The latter fixed upon the child a look of mingled 
fright, anxiety, and affection, and answered finally 
with unaccustomed severity: 

“El nino curioso y necio causa fastidio y des- 
precio.” * 

Pepito, abashed, hid himself behind his aunt’s 

* The curious and silly child causes weariness and dislike. 



86 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


skirts, and it never occurred to him to ask again 
about the mysterious journey. 

Dona Mariquita awaited each time with fever¬ 
ish anxiety the return of her brother, and going as 
far as the street to meet him interrogated him with 
a look. “Nothing, nothing,” answered Don Bias, 
cast down. “Harder than a rock; more impene¬ 
trable than the walls of Ceuta!” Doha Mariquita 
would begin to weep, and brother and sister would 
remain for days—the one without smile, the other 
unreasonably impatient. 

Meanwhile the orphan grew up to manhood 
without losing any of his childish innocence, and 
obtained through the intercession of his uncle a 
scholarship in the Seminary of Cadiz. Here he 
first showed evidence of unusual talent, extraor¬ 
dinary application, and exemplary conduct. 

On a certain occasion, by order of the bishop, 
there took place at the seminary a public cere¬ 
monial, and Pepito was the one chosen to deliver 
an address on the subject of “ The Trinity.” The 
joy of Don Bias knew no bounds, and he began 
without loss of time to make preparations for the 
journey. 

“But how will you get there, Father,” timidly 
asked Dona Mariquita, who, in spite of her ad¬ 
vanced age, always addressed her brother in this 
manner out of respect for the priesthood. “There 
is not a real in the house with which to pay for a 
seat in the ‘calesa.’” 

Don Bias smiled benignly and exclaimed, “ How 
else should a poor beggar go than on the horse of 
his patron Saint San Francisco, which needs 
neither saddle nor fodder.” 



THE FIRST MASS 


87 


“On foot?” cried Dona Mariquita, “four 
leagues on foot, with seventy years for a burden ?” 

“Four leagues! Four million leagues would I 
crawl on my knees to hear my beloved child, 
destined to be some day a second Thomas 
Aquinas. Mariquita,” he added solemnly, while 
with a brush in one hand and his clerical hat in the 
other he vainly endeavored to smooth down its 
almost threadbare nap, “mark well what I am 
telling you. I shall not live to see it, because the 
graveyard will soon include me in its harvest, but 
you are young” (Mariquita had seen sixty-five 
seasons) “and you will see it—this child will wear 
the bishop’s mitre.” 

“In the money-box are at least twenty reals,” 
remarked Mariquita timidly. 

A sudden cloud passed over the face of the chap¬ 
lain, and shaking his head he murmured, “Hush, 
daughter! In God’s name hush! That money is 
sacred.” 

Not for the throne of St. Peter’s at Rome would 
Don Bias have exchanged the seat next to the 
bishop, which the rector of the seminary invited 
him to take in the conclave hall. 

He cried one minute and laughed the next, and 
the serene expression which his kindly face usually 
wore was altered by the emotion filling his heart 
to overflowing. 

At brief intervals he turned his gaze with a look 
of satisfaction on all sides, as if to say to the entire 
company, “ Don’t you all understand that I am the 
uncle of this young man here?” At the conclu¬ 
sion of Pepito’s discourse all surrounded the 



88 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


scholar to congratulate him; even the bishop 
spoke a few flattering words and presented to him, 
with his own hands, a handsome copy of the works 
of Thomas Aquinas. 

Don Bias elbowed his way through the crowd. 
“Let me pass, Senores; let me pass. That is my 
nephew! My child! my beloved child!” he cried, 
and threw himself impetuously on the neck of the 
young man, “and poor Mariquita, who was not 

able to hear you-! But wait! wait! I will tell 

her all about it.” 

At these words the gentle old priest cried like a 
child, but suddenly the thought entered his mind 
that perhaps such success might improperly elate 
the modest youth, so he added, placing one hand 
on the boy’s head and clasping his hand with the 
other, “Well done, Pepito. You have spoken like 
a book, but remember, my son, that the human 
head, like the pumpkin, originally sprang from the 
earth.” Then he began to laugh and, again to 
weep, and embraced his nephew anew. 

Don Bias returned to his village in a “calesa,” 
which the rector of the seminary forced him 
against his will to accept, and took with him two 
printed copies of the Latin thesis which his 
nephew had recited. During the journey he read 
them aloud to the driver, who very naturally could 
not understand a word, and as soon as he arrived 
home he presented one copy to Mariquita and had 
the other framed and hung over his writing- 
table. 

“ It cannot be described, Mariquita; it had to be 
seen,” he remarked, while he hastily prepared in 
a bowl a mixture of grated garlic, bread, oil, and 



THE FIRST MASS 


89 


water, of which his evening meal consisted. 
“ Padre San Francisco protect me! Such a young 
lad, scarcely twenty years, and he challenges in 
debate Escota and Juarez and Aquinas. Truly 
this must have a silver binding and be preserved 
in a reliquary! What originality of expression, 
what power of refutation! And the Latin! Mari- 
quita, the Latin! Even I failed to understand 
that.” 

“Yes, there is no one like him,” said Doha 
Mariquita, large drops of joyous tears rolling down 
her cheeks. “ When the Almighty created him the 
mould was broken, since he has not his equal in 
the entire world.” 

“ The whole faculty from Cadiz was there, and 
he was passed from one hand to another, just like 
a relique, but with all that the little fellow was as 
humble as my patron saint, San Francisco, and 
did not lift his eyes. He is an angel, Mariquita.” 

“A saint, Bias-” 

“And when any one puts difficulties in his road 
he knows how to chase them away. Among the 
clergy there was one old, limping, busybody, sharp 
as a pepper, who contradicted him at every 
turn-” 

“Why did he contradict?” exclaimed the sister, 
a little apprehensive. “He was probably an old 
Jew.” 

“No, sister; he was a canon.” 

“Then it was envy.” 

“No, no! He contradicted, so to speak, in jest, 
in order to see whether the lad had a firm seat in 
the saddle.” 

“But surely my boy always gained his point?” 



9 o 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


“That is evident; who do you suppose could 
trap him with his clear understanding and with the 
truths which hit the nail on the head. Mariquita, 
mark what I tell you, after the boy has said his 
first mass they will make him parish priest.” 

“A head priest at least,” said Dona Mariquita. 

Don Bias broke into a loud laugh. “Then you 
might as well begin at once to make his priestly 
robes, for if things are going at this rate by Christ¬ 
mas he will be Canon, by Holy Week Bishop, and 
by Easter the Holy Father himself.” And de¬ 
lighted with his witticism, he began again to 
laugh. 

“Alas! if his poor mother could have lived to see 
this,” said Mariquita sadly. 

The joyful expression disappeared like a flash 
of lightning from Don Bias’s features. He raised 
his eyes with a deep sigh, bowed his head, and 
folding his arms said, “Poor, beloved Anna,” and 
then repeated a Pater Noster and closed with the 
words, “Requiescat in pace.” 

“Amen,” said Dona Mariquita, wiping her tears 
with the corner of her apron. Then she shut her¬ 
self up in the tiny room which served as a bed¬ 
chamber, and read from beginning to end by the 
light of a smoky oil-lamp the whole six sections of 
the thesis delivered by her nephew. 

“I do not understand a word,” she said to her¬ 
self, “but it must be good, because it deals with 
the Holy Trinity and the Bishop, and was written 
by Pepito.” 

And the good old soul learned the six parts by 
heart, and every night after finishing her whole 
catalogue of prayers she recited these devoutly and 



THE FIRST MASS 


91 


added with that faith of the lowly in spirit, to whom 
Christ has promised the Kingdom of Heaven, these 
words: 

“ May the Lord bring blessing and good fortune 
to my little Pepito, and protect him from evil.” 



CHAPTER II 


OEPITO was expected every moment, and the 
* joy,of it was manifested by the two old people 
according to their different characteristics. Don 
Bias cried and laughed alternately, and, as was his 
custom, paced up and down the scantily furnished 
room which served as a study and kept repeating 
aloud the sermon which he was to preach at the 
celebration of mass by his nephew. Every now 
and then he bothered Dona Mariquita with ques¬ 
tions, either from joy or impatience, and gave 
evidence of his good humor and unalterable con¬ 
tentment. 

Dona Mariquita fidgeted about in the kitchen, 
in the midst of an arsenal of pots, pans, and dishes 
containing the feast which she was preparing for 
the following day, and was grumbling more than 
usual, with an especially severe expression of coun¬ 
tenance, always with her a direct evidence of 
activity and joy. It was like a coat of mail, under 
which she concealed the tenderness and the sadness 
of her feelings. 

“Mariquita!” called, for possibly the hundredth 
time, the chaplain from his study. 

“What is it?” she answered from the kitchen. 

<( Why not prepare for Pepito’s supper to-night 
a part of that large fowl which we are going to have 
to-morrow?” 

“ It will happen to you just as it did to the Mayor 
of Almagro,” answered Dona Mariquita, in an in¬ 
different tone. 


92 


THE FIRST MASS 


93 


“And what was that?” 

“Since he poked his nose into everything that 
did not concern him, he died one day from sorrow 
because his neighbor’s dinner was burned.” 

Don Bias laughed aloud: “ It was not for that,” 
he answered with deliberation, “but because his 
coat had become too short.” 

“ Have it as you wish, but don’t trouble yourself 
about things which don’t concern you.” 

“Good, my child, good! I will keep silent. 
Don’t be disturbed. I only thought the boy might 
bring with him a large appetite.” 

“Then he can nibble his elbows.” 

“Blessed Virgin! It seems to me you were 
brought up on wasp’s milk.” 

“And you on syrup, so that you can mix your¬ 
self in everything.” 

Don Bias was silent, defeated as usual, and 
Dona Mariquita continued to pluck the feathers 
from the fowl, which had expired, consoled by the 
thought that it was to find an ecclesiastical sepul¬ 
chre in the stomach of the young priest. 

“Mariquita!” called Don Bias again, timidly. 

“Do be quiet!” she grumbled, trying hard to tie 
together the two legs of the fowl, which insisted 
upon dancing a bolero, with a grace worthy of 
Terpsichore. 

“Pepito is very fond of fried potatoes. I am 
only mentioning that because to-morrow he will 
have to fast till sundown, and they are so easily 
prepared.” 

“ Can’t you be quiet! Stop bothering me about 
the boy’s supper. Be careful yourself that you 
don’t have a nightmare of masses to-night.” 



94 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


“All right, child, all right. Do just as if I had 
not said anything.” 

Soon after, however, Don Bias appeared in the 
kitchen, with the sheets containing his sermon in 
his hand. “ Do you know what I have just been 
thinking about? Since the lad will be tired, 
out couldn’t you put on his bed my soft mat¬ 
tress. The straw sack will be quite enough for 
me.” 

“And what I am thinking about,” exclaimed 
Doha Mariquita, impatiently, “is that all your 
chattering will shake down the bell-tower on top 
of you to-night, and then there will be no sermon 
to-morrow. So now leave me in peace and let me 
attend to my work.” 

Doha Mariquita took good care not to mention 
that her only mattress lay upon Pepito’s bed, and 
that she herself would have to sleep on the kitchen 
bench. The chaplain retired with his head down, 
murmuring softly: 

“How did it happen that she was called ‘Mari¬ 
quita de la Paz (peace), instead of Mariquita de 
la Guerra (war).” 

“And how did it happen that you were called 
Don Bias and not Don Posma (stupid)?” an¬ 
swered the one alluded to, as she began the diffi¬ 
cult and delicate task of introducing the stuffing 
into the fowl. 

Ten minutes had not gone by before Don Bias 
appeared again in the kitchen. 

“Mariquita,” he said in a nervous manner. 

“How many times to-night are you going to call 
my name uselessly?” she exclaimed, more impa¬ 
tient than ever. 



THE FIRST MASS 


95 


“ Mariquita, for heaven’s sake hear me. I have 
had an inspiration, which came without doubt 
from God and my patron San Francisco.” 

Doha Mariquita looked at him in alarm, and 
seeing the agitation of her brother, went up to him 
with her hands full of stuffing, mouth and eyes 
wide open. 

“A moment ago, as I stood in front of the pict¬ 
ure of the Holy Saint, I felt suddenly, I know not 
why, that if Pepito at his first mass to-morrow 
should pray for what you and I have prayed for 
in vain, these last eighteen years, the Lord 
would surely grant his request. Yes, I am con¬ 
vinced of it, for His Divine Majesty in His good¬ 
ness never denies to a novice what he asks 
at his first mass. That is certain—certain— 
certain ; the Father Superior of my order told me 
so.” 

“And what would be gained by giving the boy 
this poniard thrust?” exclaimed Doha Mariquita 
with horror. 

“ I will tell him that he is to say a mass for some 
one who I know is in need of it; that will serve 
the same purpose.” 

“And if he should suspect? Sainted Virgin 
Bias. It would cost him his life.” 

“God will help me, sister. My patron San 
Francisco will point out the way.” 

Doha Mariquita was about to answer., when all 
at once the sound of approaching wheels was 
heard, and both brother and sister rushed to the 
stairs, exclaiming, “Here he is, our beloved 
child!” 

A young priest sprang lightly out of the wagon, 



9 6 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


threw his arms around both the old people, and 
pressed them to his heart. They were unable to 
contain themselves and sobbed with joy. Finally 
Don Bias sank upon his knees before the young 
man so eagerly awaited, and cried: 

“Kneel down, Mariquita, kneel down! Son, 
my cherished son, give your first benediction to us, 
your poor old guardians.” 

And for the first time the young priest, lifting 
his hands toward heaven, invoked upon these 
venerable souls the blessing of the Father, the 
Son, and the Holy Ghost. Pepito then drew forth, 
carefully wrapped in paper, a white ribbon, which 
had been cut into two pieces. 

“Here is the sash with which they bound my 
hands at the Ordination,” he said, giving it to 
Don Bias; “half is for you and half for my 
adopted mother.” 

“God bless you, my son, God bless you! I 
shall cherish it during my whole life as a relic, and 
in death it shall serve to tie my hands.” 

Dona Mariquita, speechless, took her half, and, 
bursting into tears, kissed it. Two hours later 
Don Bias left his nephew’s bedroom and crept on 
tiptoe into his own chamber. Dona Mariquita 
awaited him at the door. 

“What did he say?” she inquired anxiously. 

“That he would do it.” 

“And he suspects nothing?” 

“Nothing. In his innocence he is confident 
that his parents are dead. This gentle child, this 
dove born of a bloodthirsty wolf! My heart stops 
its beating to listen to him. He told me himself 
that his intention was to ask at his first mass for 



THE FIRST MASS 


97 


the eternal repose of the souls of his parents—his 
parents! She has already received the crown of 
the martyrs in heaven, but he—the pitiless—if the 
first mass of his son avails him nothing, then is he 
indeed accursed of God.” 

7 



CHAPTER III 


P IN ALLY the day of festival arrived, as bright 
* and beautiful as if fleeing Night, who con¬ 
ceals beneath the folds of her gloomy cloak so 
many secrets, so many fears, and so many crimes, 
had also taken with her the tumults of the day 
before. 

Coming slowly into the harbor, one could dis¬ 
tinguish a small vessel, which, on its way from 
Ceuta to Lisbon, had encountered a storm and been 
driven from its course. Arriving at the wharf, the 
crew disembarked in order to visit the first sanc¬ 
tuary of the Virgin which could be found, having 
made the vow to do so to the patron saint Of 
sailors at the moment of extreme danger, when 
faith was quickened by the rays of hope. 

Along with them went an old man who seemed 
not, like the rest, to belong to the sea; his head 
was bound with a red handkerchief, on which was 
placed a cap of rabbit-skin, exaggerating the ap¬ 
pearance of his already repulsive face. He was 
dressed in a torn jacket and trousers of a coarse 
woolen fabric of bright color, and there was notice¬ 
able in his gait that peculiar limp which betrays 
the unfortunate who has only recently discarded 
the ball and chain. He seemed tired out, and in 
his matted hair and gray beard were fresh traces 
of blood. 

The crew, followed by a crowd of children who 
had been allured by the novelty of the spectacle, 
came to the Church of Carmel—the nearest to the 

98 


THE FIRST MASS 


99 


wharf. At the same moment Don Bias descended 
from the pulpit, after having delivered his sermon 
in a voice shaken by tears and sighs, which found 
echo at intervals from his numerous hearers. 
Doha Mariquita knelt in the first row, clad in her 
dress of black silk, which made its appearance 
pnly on “Holy Thursday,” and with the lace 
mantilla bordered with velvet, which only on that 
day was taken from the depths of the oak chest. 

The young priest had returned to the altar after 
having intoned the Credo. His uncle assisted him 
on one side, and on the other the vicar. Every¬ 
thing swam before his eyes. He saw the moment 
approach in which he should for the first time hold 
in his hands the Divine Host, and experienced a 
feeling of holy awe similar to that which prompts 
the angels in heaven to cover their faces with their 
wings in the presence of God. He bowed his fore¬ 
head upon the communion altar where reposed the 
relics of the martyrs, whose teachings were to give 
up life for the Faith and Church he represented; 
for the Pope, who is the head, and for the King, 
who must defend it. He folded his hands, bowed 
his head, and remained motionless with closed 
eyes: about to ask the grace and favor of God for 
his first mass. The moment had arrived to pre¬ 
sent to Divine Providence the petition which had 
been the burden of prayer with the two old people 
for eighteen years; Don Bias lowered his head and 
clasped his hands, while Dona Mariquita covered 
her eyes. 

Both sat with bated breath, as if fearing to 
arrest the flight of that request from which they 
hoped so much. The young priest finally un- 



IOO 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


folded his hands and began to repeat those beauti¬ 
ful prayers through which the Church seems to 
extend a mantle of love and pity over her children, 
both living and dead. 

Suddenly confused sounds were heard at the far 
end of the church. As the crew of the dismantled 
vessel knelt down to pray, the old man in the gray 
woolen jacket gave a groan and, grasping his head 
with his hands, fell over unconscious. Four of his 
companions instantly lifted him up, and, under the 
guidance of some of the villagers, carried him to 
the hospital, without the occurrence attracting the 
attention of more than a few of the worshippers. 

After the mass followed the kissing of the hand, 
then the blessings given by the clergy, and after 
that again general congratulations, and two hours 
later Don Bias sat down at his modest table with 
the vicar on his right and his nephew on his left, 
and opposite the director of the hospital and three 
assistant priests. 

Dona Mariquita, with the aid of a poor widow, 
prepared all the different dishes on which she 
had expended her whole culinary skill and her 
scanty savings, and served them at the table her¬ 
self. 

Don Bias, content and animated and joyous as 
never before, urged on the enjoyment of his 
guests, and seemed to think he was not performing 
the complete duty of host unless he made sure of 
their risking indigestion by almost forcing them to 
partake twice of every dish. 

The dinner had advanced as far as the dessert, 
when Dona Mariquita placed in the centre of the 
table, with an air of unspeakable satisfaction, the 



THE FIRST MASS 


IOI 


present which the directress of the hospital had 
sent for the young priest. It was a white lamb of 
almost life size, made of cake mixed with almonds, 
tied with a ribbon and leaning against a sugar rock. 
Its hoofs, its eyes, its mouth, and the end of its tail 
were made of chocolate, and the interior was filled 
with jellied fruits. With its front foot it held a 
candy chalice, from the depths of which arose, 
amidst clouds of meringue, a red satin banner, on 
which was embroidered with spangles the words, 
“Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui toilet peccata mundi.” 
All were enchanted with the emblem from the 
directress, and the vicar, lifting out the banner, 
presented it to the young priest, proposing a toast 
in honor of the noble giver. 

Suddenly a man entered the room and inquired 
for the chaplain. It was a messenger from the 
hospital who had come with the information that 
a dying man wished absolution. Don Bias 
pushed aside his half-filled glass and arose; his 
holy zeal was shown by the haste with which the 
good priest neglected all else whenever there was 
a soul to save—but his nephew had anticipated 
him. 

“Stay here, uncle, and let me go,” he said. 
“The bishop has already given me a license to 
hear confession. Let me begin at once to pay 
my debt to you.” 

Don Bias appeared for a moment to hesitate, 
but as the vicar also used his influence, the aged 
man again seated himself, and exclaimed in a 
voice which brought tears to the eyes of all 
present: 

“Go, my son, go! Go and learn to be aeon- 



102 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


stant slave to the souls which Christ has re¬ 
deemed.” 

The young priest reached the hospital by a nar¬ 
row path which led direct from the house. In a 
small, low-ceiling room, upon a straw mattress, lay 
the old man who had swooned in the church. He 
had a deep cut in his head, caused by a blow from 
a broken spar which had fallen during the storm 
and had left a splinter in the wound. 

The new injury, which he had met with in his 
fall in the church, had driven the splinter into his 
brain, and in extracting it the physician at the 
hospital declared that even if he again recovered 
consciousness he had only a few hours to live. 
When, however, the patient finally came to him¬ 
self, his first words were a request for a father con¬ 
fessor. 

The young priest was shocked by the horrible 
spectacle, and a nervous tremor shook his frame. 
Never had this inexperienced youth witnessed the 
flowing of blood; never had he sounded the depths 
of a conscience; and now he found himself face to 
face for the first time with a deadly wound, and 
saw reflected in sinister eyes those other wounds 
of the soul, which remorse uncovers. The eyes of 
the injured man had been fixed upon the door, and 
scarcely had the priest entered when he murmured 
in trembling tones, and with a voice made hoarse 
by the approach of death and weakened by 
anguish for his crimes: 

“Father, my sins are unlimited.” 

“Without limit is the mercy of, God, my 
brother,” replied the young man, in a voice which 
came from the depths of his heart. 



THE FIRST MASS 


IO3 


From the eyes of the dying man tears unre¬ 
strained began to flow, and he tried in vain to beat 
his breast with his feeble hands. The priest bent 
over him and spoke words of consolation, and 
passing his arm under the sufferer’s shoulders care¬ 
fully raised him up. The lacerated, bleeding head, 
a ghastly reminder of the gallows, sank heavily on 
the innocent breast of the young priest, the living 
temple of Christ. 

For a whole hour the confession lasted, inter¬ 
rupted continually by moans, and now and then 
impossible to understand on account of the death 
rattle. Hot tears of remorse were a guarantee of 
its sincerity. 

The priest raised, finally, his right hand, with¬ 
out taking his left from the support of the wounded 
man, and repeated, for the first time, the holy form 
of absolution which washes away all sins. The 
dying nian gave a sigh of relief, and remained sev¬ 
eral moments motionless; then suddenly sat up, 
murmured some unintelligible words, his eyes 
opened spasmodically, and then his mouth gave a 
violent shudder, his head dropped forward, and 
over the soutane and the white neckcloth of the 
priest gushed a copious stream of blood. The 
latter realized that the sufferer had expired and 
let him sink gently back upon the pillow, closed 
the eyes which saw no longer, knelt down by the 
bedside and prayed. 

After a while he arose and turned toward the 
door; but, led by some instinctive workings of the 
heart for which he could not account, he folded 
the grimy and calloused hands of the corpse across 
its breast and leaned down and kissed them. 



io 4 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


When he left it was already night. A sister of 
charity was awaiting him at the door. 

“And the wounded man?” she asked. 

“He is dead—he died like a good Christian,” 
answered the priest. 

“ God be praised,” replied the sister, and, hand¬ 
ing him a folded paper, added, “Will you do me 
the favor to give this to Don Bias ? It is the pass¬ 
port of the unfortunate, the only ,d° climen t he 
carried; you will find his name there to enter on 
the registry. He reached here at eleven this morn¬ 
ing, and we will bury him to-night.” 

The young priest took the paper without looking 
at it, returned to the house much moved, and went 
immediately to his uncle’s study. The latter was 
seated at his desk repeating the Matins for the ap¬ 
proaching morning, and as the nephew knew that 
his uncle would not care to be interrupted at 
prayer, he did not disturb him further than to give 
him the sister’s message, adding that the old man 
had died fully repentant; then, leaving the paper 
on the desk, he went to his bedroom. 

“Well done, my son,” said the old priest; “the 
Lord has graciously accorded you a good begin¬ 
ning.” 

Don Bias leisurely finished his prayer, and at its 
conclusion closed his leather-bound breviary. 
Then he took from the desk a registry book, in 
which, as the hospital was small and seldom fre¬ 
quented, he made all entries himself, and opened 
it in order to add the name of the deceased. He 
unfolded the paper intrusted to him and drew’ 
near the lamp to read it. 

“Sainted Virgin!” he cried, as he let it fall in 



THE FIRST MASS 


io 5 


terror and grasped his head with both hands. 
For some time he remained transfixed, his eyes 
starting out of their sockets, his lips deathly white, 
and then, almost inaudibly, murmured, “Mother 
of'Pity! My patron saint San Francisco! ” Once 
more he took up the soiled and dilapidated paper 
and read again and again the few lines it con¬ 
tained. It was the ordinary passport, issued 
to “ Jose Luis Lopez y Garcia, by special pardon 
set free from the prison of Ceuta.” 

Don Bias arose unsteadily and bolted the door, 
sat down anew, and remained without moving for 
a whole hour, with eyes fixed upon that name 
which caused every fibre in his heart to vibrate; 
for that Jose Luis Lopez was Pepito’s father, was 
the wretch who had killed his wife and, deserting 
his son, had fled with a lost creature—the criminal, 
who, finally apprehended, had been condemned to 
hard labor for life at Ceuta. He was the one 
whom the heroic priest annually visited to bring 
material aid, which the shameless creature always 
accepted, and spiritual consolation, which was as 
regularly rejected. He was the sinner for whose 
conversion these poor old people had prayed inces¬ 
santly for eighteen years. This was the secret 
which, for the honor of the guiltless child, they 
had buried in their breasts, where it had burned 
like a glowing coal which no one could extin¬ 
guish. 

Suddenly the old chaplain saw that the hand of 
Providence had untangled all threads and granted 
all requests. A special grace had opened to the 
criminal the doors of that prison which should 
have been his tomb; a storm had driven him to the 



io6 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


coast, a providential wound had brought him to 
the gates of death, while heaven itself had directed 
him to lay down his burden of sin on the breast of 
his own son, at whose hands he received abso¬ 
lution. 

Don Bias trembled from head to foot—the un¬ 
suspecting son had not imagined that this mur¬ 
derer, to whom he had opened the portals of 
heaven, was his own father. So here he was, Don 
Bias, the guardian of the boy’s honor, with the 
only proof of the fatal secret in his hands—it was 
in his power to destroy it forever. The old man 
did not hesitate. Decisively he closed the Hos¬ 
pital Register without entering therein the name 
of the defunct and put it back in its place. 

“The grace granted to the first mass! The 
intercession of my patron San Francisco!” he 
murmured, and, taking the passport, he burned it 
in the flame of the lamp until only ashes remained. 
Then the nervous force which had thus far sus¬ 
tained the aged man gave way, and, dropping on 
his knees, he cried in a feeble voice: 

“Nunc.dimittis servum tuum Domine.” 

The soul of the guilty father had been saved, 
and the honor of the son was assured. 

This was the grace granted to the first mass. 



A CORRESPONDENCE 


FROM THE GERMAN OF 


Heinz Tovote 




A CORRESPONDENCE 


CHE had recently celebrated her fiftieth birth- 
^ day. The newspapers had called attention 
to the fact, and some of them had published short 
articles concerning her present self and her days 
of former triumph, referring to her having been a 
well-known and popular prima donna. 

The illustrated journals had published her pic¬ 
ture, but since none had been taken in latter years 
and only the old ones were obtainable they repre¬ 
sented her at the time of her celebrity, and in the. 
costumes of her principal roles, so all the world 
saw how beautiful she must one time have been. 

In the meanwhile, however, she had become an 
old woman to all her friends and acquaintances; 
in her own eyes only was she not so. Where 
formerly she had been a recognized personality, 
she now could walk about the streets and no one 
seemed to see in this still stately woman the erst¬ 
while celebrated singer and courted beauty. 

Her husband was a college mate and an old 
friend of mine, and on this account I was a fre¬ 
quent visitor at the house. He had married 
rather late in life, but his marriage had been a 
109 



no 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


singularly happy one from the very first, and he 
worshipped the ground his wife trod on. 

For several years past she had had no regular 
engagements, but made occasional tours, during 
which he accompanied her and looked after the 
business arrangements. The trips were mainly 
short ones, and the pair were always eager to get 
back again and settle down in their attractive 
home. 

Only one room in the house suggested the singer, 
and that was the music room, in which were hung 
the ribbons from the wreaths received during her 
stage career, as well as a few of her photographs 
and several portraits painted by well-known 
artists. 

For some little time she had not been on the 
stage at all. Wounded pride had been the primary 
reason for her withdrawal, and then later on no one 
had seen fit to offer her an engagement; so others 
took her place. 

At her fiftieth birthday all the past was revived. 
Her name and her reputation were in everybody’s 
mouth, her villa was filled to overflowing with 
flowers from friends and admirers, and the crowds 
of visitors seemed never to be at an end. Now all 
that was over, and the old-time quiet and regular 
life had once more been resumed. 

We had arisen from the table, and, while the mis¬ 
tress of the house went with her guests into the 
garden, I settled myself on the piazza with the 
husband to comfortably enjoy a cigar. 

“ Do you know,” I began, “ it is a great source of 
pleasure to me to see how bright and animated 
your wife is again. At the beginning of the year 



A CORRESPONDENCE 


III 


she did not seem to be in nearly such good spirits. 
She was quiet and gave the impression of being 
depressed. I think the homage of her birthday 
has benefited her greatly.” 

'‘You are partly right, if not entirely so, and I 
am very glad you have mentioned the subject, 
since I have a favor to ask of you.” 

“A favor? It is already granted. That goes 
without saying.” 

“You had better listen to me first before you 
commit yourself.” 

“I am at your disposal.” 

“Well—I have always considered you a firm 
friend of ours.” 

“I am one as far as it lies in my power to be.” 

“And for that reason I am going to ask you the 
favor; but I must first relate certain circumstances 
which have taken place. The birthday celebra¬ 
tion was charming, but hardly had it ended when 
my wife’s spirits seemed to undergo a change. 
She began to brood over the past; she became 
melancholy, and lost interest in her usual amuse¬ 
ments and occupations. Formerly she was an 
active and zealous w r alker for whom no distance 
was too long. All of a sudden she showed a dis¬ 
inclination to move about at all, lay on the sofa, 
lounged in an arm-chair, and was continually 
dreaming. All her energy seemed to have dis¬ 
appeared. In a dazed sort of way she wandered 
about the house, and one day she began to rum¬ 
mage among her old souvenirs. 

“We have always carefully preserved all news¬ 
paper clippings about my wife, and besides that, 
as you know, we have scrap-books full of theatre 



112 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


programmes, menus , invitations, post-cards, and 
things of that sort—in many cases with a word or 
two of comment and always with the date. 

“She bent over these from morning till night 
and read also old letters which I did not recognize. 
Now and then she would take one of the ribbons 
from the wall and sit stroking it with her eyes fixed 
on the inscription. 

“Something was evidently preying on her mind, 
but try as hard at I could I was not able by any 
device to induce her to tell me what it was. Sev¬ 
eral times I surprised her before a mirror carefully 
examining her features, and once or twice found 
her looking over her stage costumes, which hung 
in two large wardrobes. She took a number of 
them out and had them carefully brushed and 
repaired. All this in a dazed sort of way with 
evident concentration of thought. 

“ One morning, when I came home unexpectedly 
I heard her attempting to learn a new role. The 
thing then dawned upon me. She had the desire 
to return to the stage. The homage received at 
the time of her birthday celebration left her no 
peace of mind. She longed to be actually feted 
and admired at the present as well as in recollec¬ 
tion. When I realized that, I shuddered. 

“ It was a fact that she could still shine in the 
characters of her old roles were she so inclined; at 
least, her friends thought her capable of that, and 
she herself felt sure of it, but for her to attempt 
absolutely new parts appeared to me most foolish. 
That could only result in a bitter disappointment, 
and it was necessary to make her realize the fact 
at the start. 



A CORRESPONDENCE 


JI 3 


“Fortunately, however, there was no cause for 
such warning, as after a few days she gave up the 
idea. She had come to the conclusion, without a 
word from any one, that such a thing was impos¬ 
sible. She found that her voice no longer obeyed 
her; many notes had been lost. 

“After that she sank into a state of depression 
such as I never thought possible, and began to let 
herself go. Always most scrupulous in regard 
to her toilet, even in the early morning, she now 
went around in such a fashion as to mortify me. 
Any sort of forlorn wrapper put on in a slipshod 
way was good enough, and her beautiful hair hur¬ 
riedly wound into a coil was fastened on top of her 
head by hardly enough hairpins to hold it. Her 
whole manner and appearance were expressive of 
a lack of interest in herself and her surround¬ 
ings. 

“‘Never mind!’ was her answer when the sub¬ 
ject was mentioned. Everything seemed to be an 
effort. With half-closed eyes she sat dreaming by 
the hour; then suddenly she began to have fits of 
weeping and sobbed to break one’s heart; nothing 
would stop her, no consolation was of any avail. 
Scolding and sympathy were alike useless; they 
only aggravated her condition. 

“One day she suddenly revived and went out 
for the first time. The following morning there 
came from five different florists bouquets and cut 
flowers which she herself had purchased, and 
which she received just as if she knew nothing 
about them, but as if they had been sent by friends 
and admirers, as was the case recently on her 
birthday. 



RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


114 


“She looked on the bouquets and among the 
cut flowers for a card or letter or some information 
as to the identity of the sender, and when she 
found nothing her whole attitude changed and she 
again sank into her previous condition of leth¬ 
argy. 

“This purchasing of flowers and having them 
sent to herself was repeated a number of times. 
One day an idea occurred to me. I ordered to be 
sent to her a large basket of flowers accompanied 
by a card on which was written, 1 To the incom¬ 
parable artiste , jrom a devoted admirer .’ She had 
also bought flowers herself, but she neglected these 
and gave her entire attention to the one basket. 
She showed the card secretly to Marie, her confi¬ 
dential maid, and afterward carried it around 
with her. 

“ Her old-time cheerful disposition returned; she 
was a different person, and went about the house 
humming to herself. Once, quite suddenly, she 
stopped before a mirror and stared at her reflec¬ 
tion in terror, as if she had seen herself for the first 
time or else had seen a ghost. 

“ ‘Marie! Marie!’ she called. For the next few 
hours she disappeared, and when I saw her again 
she was quite a different person. She looked as 
she does to-day, as we now see her. Her hair was 
tastefully dressed and she wore a stylish costume. 
She seemed never quite satisfied with any of them 
and changed frequently. She was again the 
grande dame. 

“She began to spend her days planning new 
toilets. This occupied her thoughts to a great 
extent, but not wholly, for at every sound in the 



A CORRESPONDENCE 


115 


house she would stop and listen, and when the 
bell rang she showed an inclination to go herself 
in order to see who it was. On the days when 
nothing came she was disappointed the whole 
evening, but her expectation arose again the fol¬ 
lowing day and she was anxious until the custom¬ 
ary flowers arrived with a note. 

“ From the time when I saw the beneficial effect 
which they produced I kept sending flowers every 
few days, and from the word or two on the card 
at the beginning there developed a whole romance 
in letters. 

“Yes, my friend, my wife was in secret corre¬ 
spondence with a man of whose existence I was 
supposed to know nothing, and who is sitting before 
you here, overjoyed that- he has found a way to 
again awaken in her the pleasure of living. 

“I have occasionally given a poste-restante ad¬ 
dress, and have received answers from my wife, 
since for any length of time such a one-sided cor¬ 
respondence is not easy to carry on. My letters 
themselves have all been perfectly proper, nothing 
beyond expressions of greatest respect and senti¬ 
ments of warmest estimation, which were offered 
not only to the artiste but to the woman as well. 

“I now find myself, however, in a serious di¬ 
lemma. She has implored her secret correspon¬ 
dent to pay her a visit so that she may make his 
acquaintance, and the question at present is how 
to arrange matters so as not to hurt her feelings 
or injure her vanity. 

“Here is where you must assist me. You are 
going to-morrow to Nice. I have two letters, one 
of which you can drop in the box, perhaps, at 



n6 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Munich in the morning, and the other keep until 
you arrive at the end of your journey. By this 
means time is gained, though I am apprehensive 
as to the future, so do not be surprised if some fine 
day you see us appear at Nice. In the meanwhile 
I will see what can be done by correspondence, and 
will occasionally forward a letter to be returned by 
you. I took the precaution at the very beginning 
to have the admirer married and possessed of a 
madly-jealous wife who gave him no freedom, but 
that alone is not sufficient. 

“ I hope that you will not ridicule nor despise me 
for carrying on such a secret correspondence with 
my own wife, and being myself the deceiver of my¬ 
self. You have known us so long, and have to-day 
had unmistakable evidence of the effectiveness of 
this little comedy. 

“Here are both letters. This one first, with 
number one in the place where the stamp is to go. 
Help me carry out the delusion. You are doing 
a work of charity. You cannot believe how happy 
and contented we all are since the correspondence 
began. 

“As you see by the address, the letters have for 
some time not gone direct but through the hands 
of Marie. She is devoted to her mistress, and for 
that reason is willing to co-operate. I often won¬ 
der at the skill with which she plays her double 
part. 

“ I am living in fear that some unhappy accident 
may disclose the fraud. I should certainly con¬ 
sider that the greatest misfortune. Hush! Here 
she comes. Not a word of this, my dear friend, 
to any one; for who would understand that a man 



A CORRESPONDENCE 


II 7 


could stoop to carry on a correspondence with his 
own wife in such a way as to present himself to her 
in the character of a betrayed husband. 

“But what will a man not do for a woman for 
whom he is willing at any moment to lay down 
his life! ,J 




























































, 


















* 



THE BLACK PEARL 


FROM 


THE FRENCH OF 


Leon de Tinseau 




































% 





























































































































\ 
















































THE BLACK PEARL 


I AM always inclined to smile when I see, each 
* summer, in the Parisian journals, the state¬ 
ment that Paris is suffering from a lack of water. 

Lying out on the further shore of the Red Sea, 
and built on a volcanic promontory whose lava 
has as yet scarcely cooled, I recall a city of sixty 
thousand inhabitants, Aden by name, where one 
cannot find a blade of grass, a green leaf or a drop 
of water, no, not for all the treasures of the Indies. 

“ But when it rains, what becomes of the water,” 
I inquired of my friend Pujol, the French Consul, 
and my hospitable guide in that city on the cliff 
where I had stopped on my way home from China. 

“When it rains the water is caught in open cis¬ 
terns. It is five years, however, since the people 
of this locality have seen a cloud in the sky.” 

“Where, then, did the water come from which 
I drank this morning for breakfast?” 

“From ‘The Works.’ The English distil the 
sea water and trade their product for gold—quite 
a clever thing for them to do. How well does 
science nowadays supply the deficiencies of nature 
121 



122 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


in all ways! But the thing has a tendency to ruin 
one. My water bill amounts to one hundred 
francs a month, if I include the baths of my wife, 
who cannot abide salt-water.” 

“The deuce it does! But what do the poor 
Arabs say to that; they certainly do not look as 
if they could spend sixty gold pieces a year for 
water.” 

“They use the water which is brought by cam¬ 
els every morning from those mountains twenty 
miles in the distance—an unpleasant fluid smelling 
of goat leather. There is, however, no other way 
out of it. The distilled water is too expensive, 
and there are, besides, strict police regulations 
against its being sold to natives. It is expressly 
intended for the use of Europeans, the English 
navy, or any passing ships whose water-tanks may 
have become exhausted.” 

I noted these facts in my memorandum book, 
and we turned back toward the Consulate, where 
Madame Pujol awaited us, a pretty Marseillaise, 
transplanted to the desert, whom I met for the 
first time that morning, as my friend had been 
only recently married. We discussed the coun¬ 
try and its social conditions. Madame Pujol con¬ 
fided to me with a sigh the fact that her list of 
acquaintances contained only two names—an 
old Englishman who could not speak a word of 
French, and the proprietress of the Hotel de 
l’Univers, a typical provincial French woman, 
who was as much at home in wrangling with the 
Arab and Samoli good-for-nothings as in gos¬ 
siping with her own country people. 

As I was sympathizing with the wife of my 



THE BLACK PEARL 


123 


friend on account of the monotony of her daily 
life, her husband interrupted, saying: 

“Now, my dear, there is no need for conceal¬ 
ment. You might as well confess that here in this 
Arab city you have a—lover.” 

The young woman seemed annoyed and 
shrugged her shoulders. 

“A lover black as the ace of spades,” she re¬ 
marked. 

“Very black, but very handsome,” exclaimed 
Pujol — 11 i Niger sum sed jormosus 1 and very rich 
as well. The largest coffee trader in Aden, which 
means the most conspicuous handler of Mocha. 
I will take you to-morrow morning to his house. 
You will see there not only true luxury in the way 
of carpets, but also the finest oriental confectionery 
and sweetmeats. And as for odds and ends of 
stuffs and curios—a perfect museum! My wife 
spends hours there, and if I did not energetically 
protest, the worthy Moslem would insist on dis¬ 
mantling his entire house on the pretext that the 
articles which adorned it had pleased “Lady.” 

“What exaggeration,” cried Madame Pujol, 
the irritation in whose voice seemed to be more 
marked. “I hope, at least, you will not believe 
I am on terms of familiarity with this negro. It 
is more than two weeks since I have been near 
his house.” 

“My wife is in bad humor,” remarked the 
Consul. “ She lost a piece of jewellery this morn- 
ing.” 

“Yes, I am in despair,” said Madame Pujol. 
“I have been looking all day for one of the black 
pearls which my husband brought me from Cey- 




124 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Ion, and which I am accustomed to wear in my 
ears. You can form an idea from the one which 
I still have how beautiful it was.” 

I examined it and ascertained that Madame 
Pujol disseminated a most agreeable perfume 
and possessed a delicate, well-formed ear. Then 
the conversation turned in another direction and 
I shortly went to the roof of the dwelling to sleep, 
as is the custom of the country. 

Next morning, in company with my friend, I 
betook myself to the native quarter to pay a visit 
to the “lover of Madame Pujol.” 

Mouloud ben Said was an Arab, as his name 
indicated. He was a coffee merchant and multi¬ 
millionaire. One could drink at his house prob¬ 
ably the choicest Mocha in the world. 

During the visit to this coffee prince I met one 
of my own countrymen, a fellow traveller whose 
name I have forgotten and who was just com¬ 
pleting a journey around the world, or nearly 
so. 

He was the kind of man whom you call a “sa¬ 
vant,” a tireless collector of inscriptions, a gen¬ 
erous distributor of his own observations, and a 
prolific contributor of “Papers” to the Academy 
whose corresponding member he called himself. 
One will always do well in travelling not to put 
too much confidence in so-called corresponding 
members of Academies. 

Mouloud, who murdered his English like a 
“city merchant” and was a true specimen of the 
genuine Arab race, perhaps the handsomest race 
in the world, received us with a delightful courtesy 
and conducted us in a hospitable manner not alone 



THE BLACK PEARL 


!25 


to the business part of the dwelling, but to his own 
private apartments beyond, which interested me 
far more. 

When our inspection was finished we were 
served with oriental coffee—an aromatic drink 
which I must secretly confess was not to my taste. 
The inevitable pipe and small jug of fresh water 
accompanied the coffee. This water, after being 
swashed about in its native bottles on the backs 
of camels, was certainly not tempting, but I was 
sadly in want of some and had doubtless drunk 
worse in the rice fields of China. But how 
strange! This water had no odor of goat leather— 
no, not the least. To be sure, it was not perfectly 
clear, but it had a decidedly pleasant flavor. It 
smelled, I give you my word, it smelled of violets 
—violets in Abyssinia! 

Like myself, the “savant” had also noticed some 
peculiarity, for after he had repeatedly sniffed 
and sipped the water he remarked to me in clear 
“Academic” tones: 

“Do you not consider that one can properly 
assert that this water has a strange flavor?” 

“I do indeed,” I answered; “it reminds me of 
violets.” 

“The very thing! Are you aware, my dear sir, 
that a similar phenomenon is often remarked in 
deposits of coal, and that in these can be dis¬ 
cerned a trace of the perfume of the flower you 
mention. Perfumers make use of it to adulterate 
their wares. I infer in the present instance that 
this water has come in contact with a vein of coal, 
A coal mine in Aden, my dear sir! What do you 
say to that? Do you know what riches that 



126 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


would mean? Why, every small particle of coal 
used here has to be brought from England.” 

The globe-trotter thereupon plied our host 
with questions as to the exact locality of the spring 
from which the daily supply was obtained. In 
spite of the distance, he would have gone there 
himself had not our ship been scheduled to sail 
the same evening. He had consequently to con¬ 
tent himself with taking a sample of water in a 
small bottle for analysis by the faculty at home. 

What caused me the greatest surprise in the 
whole matter, however, was to see the degree to 
which our discovery seemed to embarrass Mou- 
loud ben Said. 

When the time to withdraw arrived, and as I 
helped myself to a final glass of water, I heard in 
my glass the sound of some hard substance which 
must have been poured into it with the fluid. 

Imagine my surprise! It was a black pearl, the 
twin sister of the pearl which Madame Pujol had 
shown me the previous day. 

And the perfume! I recognized it again. I 
had previously inhaled it, not without a mild 
sensation of pleasure, when I leaned over the ear 
of the wife of my friend, the piquant Marseillaise. 

The “savant” is all very well with his coal 
mines, but how about my poor friend Pujol? 

What I had just unearthed belonged not to the 
mineral kingdom. Poor fellow! I remember his 
remark, “The climate of Aden has the tendency 
to enervate men, but with woman, on the con¬ 
trary, its effect is exciting.” And just now, at the 
dwelling of this young, handsome and luxuriously 
established Arab, I had found a pearl which had 



THE BLACK PEARL 


127 




fallen from the earring of Madame Pujol, and 
which even retained a trace of her favorite per¬ 
fume. 

What was to be done? Nothing. 

The stately Mouloud measured me with un¬ 
loving look, while the presence of the husband 
made it embarrassing and prevented any at¬ 
tempt at explanation. Sadly I thought that 
although the principle of the sanctity of the Con¬ 
sul might be recognized by international law, by 
the Arab it did not seem to be put into practice. 

While the “savant” was corking his sample 
vial, I succeeded, under pretence of using my 
glass as a finger-bowl, in getting possession of the 
pearl unnoticed. Pujol should not lose every¬ 
thing! 

Then we took our departure from the Arab’s 
dwelling. The mineralogist hied himself direct 
to the wharf; I, however, had to go once more to 
the Consulate for the purpose of leaving the pearl. 
By a lucky chance Pujol permitted me to enter 
alone, while he went on board the packet boat to 
pay the captain a visit. 

“Before I take leave of you, Madame,” I said 
in a quiet but severe tone of voice, “will you allow 
me to restore to you this pearl?” 

She uttered a cry of joy. “My pearl! What 
good fortune! Where was it?” 

“At the house of Mouloud ben Said,” I an¬ 
swered, emphasizing every syllable; “I found it 
there myself. Pujol—Heaven be praised—knows 
nothing of my discovery.” 

And as she looked puzzled, I added in the same 
tone, “I neither know anything nor wish to know 



128 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


anything. I need not assure you that I shall con¬ 
duct myself as a gentleman should and make no 
mention to any one of this occurrence. Madame, 
I bid you good-day.” I left the room after a very 
formal pressure of the hand, while in a parting 
look I expressed all my indignation in order that 
she might know she had not deceived me in the 
least. 

I met my friend on board. I embraced him 
with a 'warmth which astonished him. Poor 
Pujol! An hour later Aden was far in the dis¬ 
tance. 

The other day I met Pujol and his wife on the 
Boulevard. They seemed to me to be more 
affectionate than ever. In the ears of the young 
wife glimmered both black pearls. We took 
breakfast together and spoke about Aden, as a 
matter of course. 

“By the way,” said the Consul, “your finding 
of the pearl at the house of the worthy Mouloud 
kept our imagination active for an entire week. 
Were you not also puzzled to explain the mat¬ 
ter?” 

I was at once a victim of embarrassment and 
curiosity and stammered an answer which was 
neither here nor there. 

.“Do you know,” continued Pujol, “my native 
servant had adopted a peculiar means of increas¬ 
ing his income: he sold to the Arabs the water 
which my wife used for her bath. In all proba¬ 
bility the pearl had fallen into the tub and in that 
manner found its way to Mouloud ben Said. 



THE BLACK PEARL 


I29 


How strange that you should be the one to find 
it!” 

“Strange, indeed! I almost swallowed it,” I 
exclaimed, with a glance at the * slight color 
mounting to the cheeks of the fair Marseillaise. 

In the Academy of Science a Paper has been 
read on the subject of the coal deposits of Aden. 

9 














* 


' . 















































































' 















































NURSE PERRETTE 


FROM THE FRENCH OF 

Rene Bazin 






































































Kf 


♦ 





















* 






















NURSE PERRETTE 


C HE was thin, Nurse Perrette, and angular, and 
^ wore her hair in wing-like puffs on either 
side of her head, after the manner of the Loire 
peasants, which did not add to the beauty of her' 
narrow face with its pointed nose, and its lips 
shaded by a decided mustache. But what did it 
matter? In our eyes Nurse Perrette was beauti¬ 
ful. We never imagined her to be ugly because 
she loved us; we only thought her old, and even 
supposed she had always been so, for Nurse Per¬ 
rette never seemed to change. 

As far back as my memory extends I see her the 
same age, or at least with the same gray hair and 
the same black eyes slightly wrinkled at the cor¬ 
ners, having no thought except for us, and I really 
believe her mind had no power to turn in any other 
direction. 

She had brought us all up and in return we “ tu- 
toyed ” her. No one could better arrange a chest 
of drawers, fold a child’s garments on a chair, or 
watch over a game of hide-and-seek. 

She was the pink of neatness: a spot filled her 
133 



134 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


with dismay, much more than us, alas t and I can 
still hear her exclamations of horror when we re¬ 
turned after some boisterous game with the knees 
of our gray trousers green from having slipped on 
the grass. 

“Ma petite Perrette,” we said to her, “please 
don’t tell; you will get us scolded,” and late into 
the night while we were asleep she studied th<^ 
effect of soap-bark, experimented with cleaning 
fluids, rubbed and hung at a proper distance from 
the fire our compromised small-clothes, dividing 
her attention between them and ourselves. 

When we were sick she sat up with us till dawn 
without closing her eyes, ever watchful to pull up 
the coverlid, listening to our heavy breathing, and 
grieved to see us suffer. 

How well I recall her tender and anxious look 
as in my hours of fever I awoke and asked “Per¬ 
rette, something to drink; I’m thirsty.” 

She would get up from her chair, prepare a 
warm “tisane” made from herbs gathered in each 
of the four seasons, so that at a single draught I 
imbibed spring, summer, autumn, and winter. 
She had faith in it, and something like a smile of 
joy would light up her features when, again over¬ 
come by sleepiness, with head back on the pillow 
and eyes half closed, I said to her, “That is so 
good: I’m sleepy already.” 

The affection of Perrette carried her to the 
point of despotism. In her own heart she did not 
admit that any one other than herself had the 
right of authority over us or knew better what 
we should do, so she was generally allowed to 
have her own way. 



NURSE PERRETTE 


x 35 


Every now and then, though, this became ir¬ 
reconcilable with parental dignity. 

My mother would say, “Perrette, the children 
are to put on their blue dresses.” 

“No, Madame, I shall certainly not let them 
wear those; they are too heavy; my children will 
take cold.” 

“You heard what I said, Perrette; you are to 
put them on.” 

“No, Madame, I would rather leave.” 

“Very well, then go.” 

Perrette would pack her trunk—not a difficult 
thing to do; the poor little trunk covered with goat 
skin, and then when on the point of leaving she 
took her last look at us she would burst into tears 
■—and remain. My mother would pardon her 
and we would go out in our blue dresses. 

How do these faithful creatures who bring us 
up—there are probably few of them left—arrive 
at the point of loving children who are not their 
own in the way they do ? Where do they get this 
maternal love, this self-forgetfulness? knowing 
full well that they must some day leave the house¬ 
hold and that they will not have the right of the 
mothers to follow through life those whom they 
have rocked in the cradle. Perhaps this thought 
did occur to Nurse Perrette, for every evening, 
when we said our prayers, she would make us 
repeat without ever once missing “Saint Perrette 
intercede for us.” 

She married. We were no longer small chil¬ 
dren when one day this news surprised us: “Per¬ 
rette is going to be married.” 

Her husband was not at all handsome. I saw 



136 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


him when I accompanied Perrette to the church. 
He was big and commonplace and looked some¬ 
thing like the pictures on a Japanese screen, with 
little slits of eyes, cheeks marked with red veins, 
and a scraggy white beard. I think he married 
her for her money, and that Perrette accepted 
him as a consolation because we were slipping 
away from her. They went to live in the country, 
in a small cottage with a thatched roof, a short 
distance from the town. 

The old fellow seldom worked, with the excep¬ 
tion of occasionally hiring himself out in the warm 
weather when his rheumatism permitted. His 
wife, more industrious than he, learned to make 
bouquets, and earned considerable money by sell¬ 
ing them in the neighborhood. The couple rarely 
visited the town, and even when Perrette came to 
see us she never found me at home. I was pur¬ 
suing my studies at the preparatory school, and 
soon after I left for Paris. 

She never forgot me, however. She knew that 
as either pupil or student I had holidays ai 
Easter, and every year at an early hour Easter 
Monday some one called at the house and left a 
bouquet of flowers. From the very first time I 
knew I could not be mistaken. I recognized the 
flowers which Nurse Perrette would choose—the 
gilly-flower whose perfume seemed to her so 
sweet, the forget-me-not, the anemone, the white 
narcissus, the sprig of mignonette, still green, 
which she must have chosen from among a count¬ 
less number in the warmest spot of the garden 
and which she considered to be in bloom because 
of one pale star at the end of the spray. And had 



NURSE PERRETTE 


137 


there chanced to be three rosebuds on her climb¬ 
ing rose bushes, she picked them all and brought 
them to me. She was more than repaid when I 
went and thanked her. 

This annual visit Perrette always looked for. 
She rejoiced in it and evidently announced it to 
the neighbors. But, a peculiar thing! While I 
was there she seemed to be happy for only the 
first few moments, the time when she felt that her 
child of former days was again with her. After 
that she became restless, anxious about everything: 
about the tidiness of her house, which she consid¬ 
ered compromised by a stray leaf blown in by the 
wind; about the cleanliness of the windows, which 
she had washed a week before; about the white¬ 
ness of the table-cloth spread on the old walnut 
table; about the quality of her pot-au-feu, made in 
accordance with ancient traditions; about the 
time, about the heat, about the cold. 

The moment was sure to come when she said 
to me: “Things are not very nice here: you don’t 
like it, do you ? It’s poor.” 

One does not go to see an old nurse to criticise 
such matters. I always felt like saying: 

“ Let us talk of the past: forget your table-cloth, 
your soup, your flowers and your neighbors, and 
tell me about my childhood; tell me of the days 
when I was too little to understand; of those days 
when my mother was still young and you were not 
yet old. Try to remember, Perrette.” 

But no, she seemed to remember the past only 
in showing me a futile devotion. Even in walking 
with her along the sanded garden paths bordered 
with boxwood and her favorite forget-me-nots, her 



RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


!3 8 


attention was absorbed by the moving clouds or 
directed toward the weeds which threatened to 
destroy the beauty of the flower beds. Evidently 
I had remained for Nurse Perrette the child 
whom one guards but with whom one does not 
converse. 

One time on Tuesday of Easter week, when I 
happened to arrive from Paris, I asked: “Is the 
bouquet in my room?” 

“No, Monsieur.” 

“ Did no one bring a bouquet for me yesterday ? ” 

“No, Monsieur.” 

“That means Perrette is ill.” 

I hastened to go to see her and found her in bed 
with a high fever and so depressed that it affected 
me painfully. 

“Everything is in disorder here,” she said in a 
low voice. “ I hope you will excuse it—I am not 
able now to look after the house, and for the past 
week my husband”—she stopped and tried to 
smile—“Monsieur Rene, you have come for your 
bouquet; it is ready.” 

“What, Perrette! as ill as you are!” 

“I did not go out, of course; I was too weak, 
but I had the flowers brought to me here and 
waited until I was able. There they are, under 
the chair.” 

And under the chair, in fact, were my flowers, 
with their stems in a bowl of water; a large bunch 
of anemones and forget-me-nots, which seemed 
to be looking about with a startled air as if they 
felt out of place in the sombreness of the room. 

“ I shall take them with me,” I said to Perrette. 
“It was for me to come and get them this time. 



NURSE PERRETTE 


I 39 


You see, I suspected you would not be able to 
bring them.” 

She talked even less than usual, but kept her 
eyes almost constantly fixed upon me with that 
familiar expression of the past twenty years, ex¬ 
cept that it was more intensified. It said: “I 
love you; I brought you up; you are my child 
also.” And that consoled her. 

I saw, however, that another idea had entered 
her mind and taken possession of it. She was 
agitated; her lips grew paler and her eyes be¬ 
came more feverish. I sought to quiet her by 
recalling the old fairy tales which she used to 
tell. 

“ Listen, Monsieur Rene,” she said gravely, 
and in almost a tone of command, “I have a re¬ 
quest to make. Promise me-” 

“Anything you ask, Perrette.” 

“I brought away with me when I left to be 
married several things which I would not care to 
have here in case anything happens. Of course, 
it was with your mother’s permission, and I have 
always cherished them. Take them along with 
the bouquet and keep them. If I get well I will 
bring them back.” 

“ But you will get well, Perrette.” 

“One never knows. Over there in the ward¬ 
robe-” 

What were the things on which she had set 
such store ? I do not recall ever having seen any¬ 
thing of value in her possession. I opened the 
two doors of the cherry-wood wardrobe whose 
polished surface fairly shone on the opposite side 
of the room and found in it some spotless linen, a 



140 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


coffee-set of pale blue china, a bunch of lavender, 
a workbox- 

“There is nothing here,” I said. 

She made an effort to raise herself, and an¬ 
swered : 

“Behind the linen in a willow basket with a 
lid; the key is under the sheets near a russet 
apple.” 

I took the basket and found the key as she had 
said, near a large apple from last autumn, per¬ 
fectly preserved but with a skin as wrinkled as 
Perrette herself. I seated myself at the further 
end of the room and opened the precious casket 
as it rested upon my knee. 

Although Perrette was so ill I had the greatest 
desire to laugh. What valuable treasures, in 
truth! On the blue cotton which lined the interior 
of the basket lay three objects—a photograph of 
four children taken in a group; a narrow fur col¬ 
lar of rabbit-skin with blue silk buttons; and a toy 
sheep with one of its feet missing. 

“You have found them?” inquired the feeble 
voice from the bed. 

And my smile vanished immediately, for I un¬ 
derstood that she had hidden away there with 
these objects of such trivial value the inestimable 
tenderness of bygone days, that this dilapidated 
toy sheep was for her a witness of the past, and 
this collar of fur worn long ago by one of “her” 
children a sacred relic in the eyes of the old 
nurse. 

I got up and put the basket on Perrette’s bed; 
she raised herself slightly, took the piece of fur and 
said in a trembling voice: 



NURSE PERRETTE 


141 


“You wore that, Monsieur Rene, when you 
were two years old.” 

She looked at the maimed sheep and added, 
“You gave it me after it was broken and I have 
always kept it.” Then lifting the photograph to 
her lips she kissed it. 

“It hurts me to leave them, but I must,” she 
said, collecting herself for a moment and brushing 
away a tear. 

As I stood by the bedside and demonstrated by 
my emotion the respect I felt for my old dying 
nurse, I saw her countenance become sublime, 
her eyes light up with a peculiar expression, and 
her face beam with all the silent love which had 
finally overflowed. 

“Monsieur Rene,” she said to me in her natural 
voice, “I have never been happy except with you. 
Women like myself should not marry, because 
their happiness is all centred in the children they 
have cared for.” She stopped, and, raising the 
emaciated hand which had so lovingly toiled for 
us, she added: 

“ Even after death I shall not forget you.” 

I left the house, carrying under my arm the 
broken sheep only partially concealed by my 
bouquet, while one end of the rabbit-skin collar 
protruded from my pocket. 

Let the people I met on the road laugh; as for 
me, I cried. 

This was the last bouquet of Nurse Perrette. 







TWO MIRACLES 


FROM THE ITALIAN OF 


Grazia Deledda 









TWO MIRACLES 


V^/ITH eyes fastened upon the rosary of 
** mother-of-pearl in her hand, “Zia” 
Batora climbed the steep path which led from the 
village of Bitti up to the Church of Our Lady of 
Miracles, an unassuming edifice, famous through¬ 
out the entire island of Sardinia and so named be¬ 
cause of the many miracles performed within its 
walls. 

The fact that these manifestations before its 
modest altar had probably found their origin in 
the religious enthusiasm of the people, or at least 
been greatly exaggerated by popular superstition, 
did not prevent large crowds in need of either 
physical or mental succor from flocking to Bitti 
during the month of September to take part in the 
celebration in honor of Our Lady of Miracles. 

The festival was one of the few upon which time 
had not laid its hand, and it still retained its awe¬ 
inspiring character and ancient glory. Mountains 
were crossed and valleys traversed on foot in order 
to reach the shrine of the wonder-working Ma¬ 
donna, who never failed to give in each successive 
year some new proof of her power, 
io 145 



146 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


“Zia” Batora was a devoted follower of Our 
Lady of Miracles. On the first Monday of every 
month she took the path toward the church, telling 
her beads all the way, and during the three days of 
the feast she knelt there morning and evening and 
prayed fervently. In addition she gave money for 
masses, processions, and novenas. She prayed to 
the Madonna for a miracle; she prayed for peace, 
for peace in her heart so restless and disturbed— 
for peace at once and without further watching and 
waiting—but always in vain. Days and months 
glided by, mass followed mass; novenas and pro¬ 
cessions succeeded one another, while bitterness 
and desolation became stagnant in the soul of 
“Zia” Batora. 

She could not forget—her heart was bruised and 
bleeding—and although supplied with every ma¬ 
terial want, she felt herself poorer than the most 
miserable beggar, and saw her happiness sink 
down beyond the desolate horizon of the future. 

Batora’s house, with its carved wooden balconies 
commanding a view of the church, stood out 
against the clear horizon in the ruddy September 
sunset, like the painted landscape in the back¬ 
ground of the picture of the Resurrection over the 
altar. But the house was desolate and spiritually 
empty, as was the soul of her who occupied it— 
and yet it was so filled with all the material gifts 
of God. 

Sadurra, the only child of “Zia” Batora, had 
fallen in love with a young man, poor and of hum¬ 
ble birth. Because of her social position the 
mother rebelled against this affection as almost 
unnatural, since, besides being wealthy, she be- 



TWO MIRACLES 


147 


longed to that aristocratic portion of the Sardinian 
people called “Principali,” a class prominent and 
influential, and still imbued with the haughtiness 
of the Spaniards who were at one time the richest 
and most powerful of all the island’s population. 

JBut the beautiful Sadurra in her twenty-first 
year fled from the paternal roof to unite herself 
with the man of her heart, and the elopement gave 
rise to unlimited scandal in Bitti and the nearby 
villages. 

The blow was a crushing one, and “Zia” 
Batora was totally overcome. Never had mother 
loved a daughter as she loved hers. For twenty 
years since the murder of her husband she had 
concentrated all her affection, all her hope, on 
Saddura, picturing for her a brilliant future, which 
naturally included a husband rich, esteemed, and 
belonging to the “Principali”; such a man as 
could avenge the death of the father. 

Now, every wish, every hope, every affection 
had vanished, and “Zia” Batora, kneeling on the 
hearthstone, cursed her daughter. She cursed the 
mother’s milk which had given the child suste¬ 
nance. She cursed her own gray hairs, and by the 
golden crucifix on her rosary she swore to never 
again think of her daughter except as a mortal 
enemy. And so she lived alone in a house void of 
comfort or hope. She saw herself dishonored, and 
felt keenly the triumph of those of her own position 
whom jealousy had made enemies. 

No evidence, however, of grief or bitterness 
could be detected upon her pale and rigid features, 
none in her hard, cold, and sunken eyes nor on her 
thin, white lips. 



148 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


“Batora is strong,” people said; “misfortune 
does not humble her.” 

But her heart was shattered so that she could 
not weep. She only hated and—prayed. Many 
a time after listening to the counsel of enemies, or 
even friends, she was prompted to pay an assassin 
to kill Peppe Nieglia, the husband of Sadurra; 
but religious fear had always stood in the way of 
such a crime. 

She had made her will in favor of the Church 
of the Miracles, and day and night besought the 
merciful Madonna to give her peace, but, as 
always, in vain. 

Eighteen months after the lamentable event she 
nursed the same hatred, and neither the knowledge 
that Sadurra was leading a life of misery and 
drudgery, nor the satisfaction of having more than 
once brutally repelled her entreaties for pardon, 
could console Batora. 

With eyes fastened upon the rosary of mother- 
of-pearl in her hand, “Zia” Batora slowly climbed 
the steep path which led to the church. 

In spite of the fact that at Bitti—contrary to the 
custom of the other Sardinian villages—the widows 
after a certain period resumed their bright-colored 
attire, she had always continued to dress in mourn¬ 
ing, with the exception of two strips of silver lace 
in the form of a cross on the crown of her bonnet. 
These were half-concealed by a heavy veil, and 
were possibly some mysterious symbol of which 
Batora alone knew the meaning. Her laced 
bodice, open in front, displayed a richly embroi¬ 
dered chemisette, the only luxury permitted in the 



TWO MIRACLES 


149 


costume of Bitti, and underneath the short skirt 
of alpaca was a longer white skirt of muslin. 

A gayly dressed crowd filled the narrow streets 
and the open square in front of the church. Beg¬ 
gars at every turn held out their hands and in a 
whining and monotonous voice asked alms of 
passers-by. The neighboring villages had con¬ 
tributed to swell the multitude, and the market 
town of Bitti in the scintillating September sun¬ 
light presented a gorgeous picture, with its frame 
of fresh green fields in the distance. 

“Zia” Batora continued her ascent unmindful 
of the crowds, and, having arrived in front of the 
church, she stopped and made the sign of the cross 
before one of the innumerable processions which 
were passing. 

It was a feature of the Festival of the Miracles 
that any devotee might pay for one of these pro¬ 
cessions. A contribution to the church of from 
one to fifty “scudi” caused the procession to start. 
First came a priest carrying a lighted taper, and 
then followed a line of worshippers from different 
villages with the banners of their religious societies. 
Each procession would make a single turn around 
the church, re-enter, and appear again on behalf 
of another contributor; so that in one short morn¬ 
ing dozens of such processions might take place. 

In contrast with all this solemnity, the frivolous 
minded were indulging in one of their native 
dances, the “duru-duru,” on the opposite side of 
the square. The merriment was at its height in 
spite of dust and sun, and refreshment vendors 
were circulating among the crowd offering conso¬ 
lation to the hungry and thirsty. 



RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


150 


“ Zia” Batora entered the church. It was filled 
to overflowing with people from different localities, 
and different also in costume and speech, many of 
whom had come from miles away, with feet bare 
and head uncovered. From the motley assem¬ 
blage arose a confused murmur, amounting almost 
to an uproar, and all the women seemed to be talk¬ 
ing at once, unconscious of the babel they were 
creating. 

“Zia” Batora found difficulty in making her 
way through the mass, and aroused energetic pro¬ 
tests by her pushing and elbowing; but by dint of 
perseverance she finally succeeded in reaching the 
spot near the centre of the church where she was 
accustomed to kneel. 

“What is happening?” she asked of an ac¬ 
quaintance. 

“It is a young girl possessed of an evil spirit,” 
replied the person addressed in an excited tone. 
“After mass it will be exorcised, and the Lord grant 
that our Madonna may perform a miracle. The 
news has spread through the entire crowd, and 
every one is trembling with fear and horror. The 
lost soul is believed to have belonged to an apos¬ 
tate priest,” she whispered mysteriously. 

“Where does the girl come from?” 

“ From Ala. They say the spirit was driven out 
by a brother priest, and being refused admittance 
in heaven and purgatory, and even in hell, was 
forced to wander about the earth until it finally 
entered the body of this innocent child.” 

“How dreadful!” 

“Yes; the poor thing is in continual torment, 
and acts as if she were mad. She foams at the 



TWO MIRACLES 


151 

mouth, shrieks and blasphemes, and her strength 
is marvellous for one of her age. She breaks 
everything within reach.” 

Batora shuddered as she endeavored to get a 
glimpse of the pitiful spectacle. 

“ She is not yet in the church. They will bring 
her in, bound, after mass.” 

“ But if the spirit is driven out of the child, will 
it not seek to enter the body of some other 
person?” asked Batora. 

“That I do not know. But if our Madonna 
performs the miracle she will make it complete by 
banishing the evil spirit from the earth forever. 
Perhaps in her mercy she will allow it to dwell in 
purgatory.” 

The mass began. Every one arose. The heat 
was intense, and the anticipation of the approach¬ 
ing ceremony held all spellbound. 

Batora alone was not absorbed by it. Her face 
was white and her eyes feverish, and though the 
latter were directed toward the altar they saw some¬ 
thing entirely different. 

Near Batora were three women standing upon 
a bench, and one of them was holding in her arms 
a chubby infant with cheeks like roses. The 
laughter and playfulness of the babe were divert¬ 
ing the women and relieving the tension of delay. 
The young mother was pale and thin, but in spite 
of that her features showed traces of great beauty. 
It was Sadurra in ill health and shabbily dressed. 
She saw her mother’s cold and indifferent manner, 
and made an effort to restrain her tears. 

“Not even one look at the ‘bambino,’ who is so 
pretty, and who in addition bears the name of its 



I S 2 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


dead grandfather!” No! her mother was doubt- 
* less beside herself with rage, and was calling down 
curses on the curly head of the innocent. At the 
idea Sadurra could no longer refrain from weeping, 
and was tempted to leave the church. 

But Batora did not curse the “bambino,” and 
the sight of it even softened the anger which the 
presence of Sadurra had aroused. She had never 
seen the child, and had not realized how deeply 
she would be affected. It was the first time, also, 
that she had seen her daughter since her mar¬ 
riage. 

How changed she was! She seemed like a beg¬ 
gar. She seemed—“Zia” Batora had not yet ex¬ 
plored the depths of her heart. Under the layers 
of resentment and anger, perhaps some little pity 
for her daughter might be concealed. 

Signora Santissima! How pretty the child is, 
and the eyes, how like its grandfather’s. No! no! 
they are more like that vile race of the Nieglia. 

The mass proceeded. The bell rang for the 
elevation of the Host, and for a moment all was 
hushed. “Zia” Batora prayed, but only with her 
lips. She was conscious of nothing save the 
tumult of voices within her. Anger, humiliation, 
and regret; bitterness and tenderness; hate, pity, 
and love were mingled together in her heart, and 
engaged in a maddening struggle. The multitude 
of people sank upon their knees. 

“Gezii, Gezii!” cried “Zia” Batora, covering 
her face with her hands. “Nostra Signora mia! 
Have pity on me! Have pity on me!” 

She felt the eyes of her daughter fixed upon her 
and experienced an inexpressible sensation of grief. 



TWO MIRACLES 


153 


She yearned to kiss the cheeks of her grandchild, 
and at the same time longed to dash its head 
against the wall. Saddura had simply brought the 
infant for the purpose of stirring up the past, and 
her enemies were watching her humiliation with 
smiles of satisfaction! 

“ Dio Santissimo.” It was torture! Would the 
mass never be finished. 

The rapt attention grew more intense; morbid 
curiosity and fear had driven the crowd almost to 
a frenzy. Women fainted from heat and fatigue, 
and were trampled under foot. Even the merry¬ 
makers and vendors had pushed their way into the 
church. Behind the choir a group of gendarmerie 
added color to the picture. 

“ Zia ” Batora was nearly suffocated in her heavy 
bonnet and long black veil, and found herself 
pushed to the very foot of the bench on which 
Sadurra was standing. Her agitation was in¬ 
creased by fear of the supernatural, and she felt 
sure her trembling was noticeable to all about her. 

At last a low murmur ran through the crowd. 
The child with the evil spirit was being brought 
in, and “Zia” Batora caught a glimpse of her. 
The wasted little body was clad entirely in black, 
and the eyes were of a strange metallic color and 
shone with an unearthly light. The child was 
bound, but made no effort at resistance, nor did 
she utter a sound. 

When, however, the ceremony of exorcising was 
finished and the crucifix presented to her to kiss, 
a piercing shriek which seemed to come from the 
evil spirit within rang out through the church. 



154 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Men and women turned pale and held their breath 
The child struck at the crucifix and spat upon it, 
and continued to utter inarticulate and terrifying 
cries. 

On her knees at the altar rail a woman was pray¬ 
ing. She was the mother of the child, and her loud 
sobs and spasmodic weeping could be plainly 
heard. Batora all at once felt her heart soften 
and was conscious of an unusual feeling of pity for 
the woman so grievously afflicted. 

The crowd, having recovered from its fear, was 
no longer silent, and confused murmurs echoed 
and re-echoed from the opposite walls of the 
church. As the noise increased Batora suddenly 
thought she heard her own name called by a mys¬ 
terious voice. The woman of Ala seemed to be 
saying, “ Why do you come here to bewail ? What 
have you to desire, what have you to ask ? I alone 
am unhappy. What mother can be so unfortu¬ 
nate? Batora, Batora, conquer your pride!” and 
her own name was repeated a thousand times by 
the echoes of the church. A wave of remorse and 
repentance surged through her heart, and a feel¬ 
ing of overwhelming tenderness prompted her to 
turn and kiss the cheek of the infant whose breath 
almost touched her face, but she could not; no, 
as yet she could not! 

The heartrending spectacle at the altar, com¬ 
bined with such display of maternal grief and love, 
had aroused in Batora a series of bewildering sen¬ 
sations, and the sobs of the mother heard above 
the shrieks of the child had the effect upon her of 
acute physical pain. She knew not where nor 
how, but she felt herself suffocated, strangled. 



TWO MIRACLES 


155 


The demented girl in her writhing had broken 
the cords which bound her, and it was necessary 
to summon the gendarmes in order to hold her 
down. The priests persisted in their efforts to 
make her kiss the crucifix, but the attempts only 
increased her blasphemy. 

All of a sudden Batora saw the mother of the 
child arise as if by inspiration and dry her tears. 
She took the crucifix from the hands of the priest 
and in an attitude of deepest reverence held it be¬ 
fore the face of the child. 

The little one was quiet in an instant. It was 
like enchantment. Her eyes melted into a fatigued 
and dreamy languor, and sinking into an attitude 
of prayer she repeated the “Ave Maria” in a 
voice subdued and full of piety. 

“Figlia mia—daughter mine!” cried the 
mother, overcome with joy. 

The crowd dropped to their knees, and with 
trembling voice responded to the “Ave Maria” 
of the child. 

The miracle had been performed. The entire 
congregation gave vent to that sobbing and wailing 
which is the expression of fear of the supernatural 
—of the surprise and dread felt by the soul at the 
mysterious exhibition of its own simplicity. 

“Zia” Batora was one of these. 

She returned to the village with the babe of 
Sadurra in her arms and its mother by her side, 
while the good people of Bitti said to one another, 
“This year our Madonna has performed not one. 
but two miracles.” 




















' 















EMBERS 


FROM THE SPANISH OF 


Francesco Acebal 





















































































































EMBERS 


A LL large cities have their restful nooks, and 
one of these quiet and secluded spots is “el 
Jardin Botanico.” I go there every afternoon, 
and underneath the leafy shelter of its patriarchal 
trees I lose, little by little, the noise of the trubu- 
lent city, and find in its stead a mystic calm, as I 
wander along the narrow paths, with their border 
of myrtle forming a shady background for ter¬ 
races of flowers. 

The shadows of late afternoon fall placidly on 
the chestnut trees, the moist earth exhales the 
odor of dry leaves and withered flowers, and the 
dripping of water in the lichen-covered basin of the 
stone fountain produces a pleasantly monotonous 
sound. It is the serene peace and the mysterious 
sweetness of twilight. 

At long intervals the shrill whistle of the locomo¬ 
tive leaving the near-by station breaks the silence 
of the garden, and echoes through the foliage like 
a cry of distress from the far-away world. Now 
and again children’s voices find their way into the 
damp and sunless corners and bring a fragment 
of monotonous song and words with strange bar- 
159 



RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


160 


baric sense, but so full of joy that they harmonize 
perfectly with the music- of the running water. 

Along the broad walks in the shadow of the 
myrtle hedges are stone benches, so low and so. 
worn that they resemble tombstones, and every 
afternoon on one of these are seated two old men 
both with shaven faces, both with bent backs 
and hollow chests, and both in a seeming attitude 
of expectancy, or even mild eagerness, for repose 
beneath the stone. I see them there every after¬ 
noon like eternal dwellers in this placid garden, 
and when they are no more I thoroughly believe 
I shall see two others take their places and rest 
with equal serenity on the low and worn bench. 

One of them is a priest, and the color of his 
wrinkled coat has become almost as green as the 
trunk of a tree or as a moss-covered stone. The 
other I knew long ago, and many a time have I 
seen him on the stage, and laughed at his humor¬ 
ous representations. 

The theatre in which this comedian played is 
now no more, and I cannot conceive how a man 
so sad and so bent could ever, at any time or at 
any theatre, have made me laugh. His face is 
now dry and withered, and greenish like the 
priest’s coat, and over his shoulders hangs a long, 
dark-colored cape—a cape I sometimes see in 
my dreams, and which, in spite of its shadowy 
form, I cannot fail to recognize. 

The two gaze upon the ground, and upon the 
dead leaves fallen from the branches of the elms, 
and I doubt if either of them has ever noticed me 
as I walk back and forth. I am for them only a 
casual passer-by, although I sometimes go quite 



EMBERS 


161 


near and stand with hearing strained to catch 
what they may have to say; for it seems to me 
that these two old men must relate to one another 
most extraordinary things. 

I endeavor to conceal my curiosity by reading 
the botanical names in red and black letters at¬ 
tached to the trunks of the trees, like title-pages of 
old books—“Robinia,” “Ailanthus”—and again 
names which bring to mind the perfumes of the 
far-off oriental lands: “Moral de China,” “So- 
phora del Japon,” or poetical inscriptions, as 
“Arbol del Amor” (“The Tree of Love”) with its 
dark and twisted trunk, or the hardy “ Olmode las 
Montanas,” in a coat of moss like a velvet mantle 
on the body of a sturdy youth. 

The two old men sit together, always on the 
same bench, without seeming to exchange a syl¬ 
lable or an idea, for never while I am reading the 
names on the trees do I hear the slightest sound of 
words. Is it possible that he of the gray cape has 
no desire to learn the simple life of the priest, or 
that the priest has no curiosity to inquire into the 
turbulent existence of the comedian ? 

The folds of the cloak mingle with the folds of 
the cape; the twilight of late afternoon settles 
down on the leaves of the trees. The monotonous 
sounds of nature are overcome by lethargy and 
drowsiness, except that one hears more clearly the 
dripping of the water in the stone basin of the 
fountain. 

Upon the sounding of the bell by the custodian 
of the garden, the two old men rise from the 
bench, uncover their gray heads, and bow their 
already bent bodies still lower, and I hear the 



162 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


priest say to the comedian, in his solemn tones, 
“Hasta manana” (“until to-morrow ,, ) > and the 
comedian with silvery voice, perhaps a little 
broken, reply to the priest, “El cielo os guarde” 
(“ may heaven guard you ”). The one wraps him¬ 
self in his cloak, and the other draws his cape 
about him. The priest departs by the myrtle- 
bordered path, and the comedian descends the 
broad stone steps which lead down between two 
marble statues. 

The old man of the cape is dead. I assisted at 
his funeral in pious remembrance of the many 
nights on which his comedy had cheered me. We 
were five, and we walked in sadness to the ceme¬ 
tery behind his coffin. On my return from the 
interment, I went into the Botanical Gardens and 
found seated on the same bench the old priest. I 
sat down at his side, took out a newspaper, un¬ 
folded it and read in a low voice and in solemn 
tones an obituary notice surrounded by a heavy 
black border. 

The old priest turned to me and asked, “Who 
is it?” 

“I answered, “It is the other-” 

At that moment the sound of the custodian’s 
bell vibrated through the garden. The old man 
arose from his seat and in his melancholy voice 
said, “Hasta manana,” and I, folding my news¬ 
paper, replied, “El cielo os guarde.” 




“YAP” 


FROM THE GERMAN OF 


Heinz Tovote 








“YAP” 


“A CURIOUS name!” she said, as, slowly 

** sweeping her field-glasses past the crowded 
grand-stand and over the paddock, she fixed them 
upon the victor and his mount. The dark chest¬ 
nut mare which had just won her maiden race 
tossed with nervous impatience her foam-flecked 
head. Bright spring sunshine lay upon the fresh 
green lawn, the hedges and ditches were sharply 
defined against the level of the fields, the little flags 
fluttered merrily in the breeze, and the band which 
had just hailed the winner now started a lively 
march, drowning the hum of voices. 

Eva leaned back comfortably in her box, and, 
with the color in her cheeks heightened by excite¬ 
ment, let her glance wander over the grand-stand 
and the people on the promenade, at present 
mostly ladies with their gay parasols, the men 
having gone down to await the horses entered for 
the next race. 

“Shall we go down, also?” asked Eva’s escort, 
an elderly man who had driven her father and her¬ 
self to the course. 

“ No, Baron, I prefer to remain here. Don’t let 
165 



RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


166 


us disturb papa; he has a crowd of acquaintances. 
Rather take compassion on me, and point out the 
people somewhat; not only the name and kind, 
please, but just a little gossip which an innocent 
from the country ought to know.” 

“Very well. Do you see that short man at the 
rail, with a brown hat, who is striking his boots 
with his riding-whip ? ” 

“ The one with the black moustache and dressed 
rather loudly?” 

“Quite right. That is Bruckhof.” He leaned 
over somewhat and told her about the financier 
and his enormous operations. He pointed out the 
great bankers, and the bearers of ancient names, 
the inveterate sportsmen, and the whole motley 
company which usually follows the races. He 
understood how to make his descriptions sharp 
and clear, in spite of the fact that he felt called 
upon to choose and weigh his words in talking 
with the young girl. She listened to him atten¬ 
tively, with her glasses turned first here, then 
there, while the whole surroundings wrought her 
up to feverish tension. 

“Tell me, Baron,” she said suddenly, “the tall, 
light-haired man directly in front of us, who is 
speaking with the cavalry officer standing near the 
pretty woman, who looks so bewitching. She is 
very beautiful; they shook hands with him a mo¬ 
ment ago, as he was walking alongside the horse 
which won—what in the world was its name ? Oh, 
yes: Yap, the horse you said ran thirty to one. 
Such a funny name.” 

“ I was remiss in not telling you before. That 
is Von Rodinger, the owner of Yap.” 



YAP 


167 


u 


•n 


“Ah!” And she studied with curiosity the fine- 
looking man, whom she had already singled out, 
only she had not dared inquire of her companion 
for fear of betraying her interest. 

“And the lady? May I ask who she is? She 
is rather conspicuous, but very attractive and 
‘chic.’” 

“You know her. You saw her act yesterday. 
It is Branda.” 

“Really?” 

“By her intimate friends she is called ‘Yap,’ 
although they say that Von Rodinger is the only 
one who has the exclusive right to call her so. 
The horse which won bore the name and colors 
of his charmer.” 

“How interesting!” But Eva’s hand trembled 
as she clasped the dainty field-glass tightly and 
held it close against her eyes so that her com¬ 
panion should not notice her agitation. 

The lady who had stood talking with the two 
gentlemen was surely of a rare grace, and the 
large Gainsborough hat set tastefully on her 
wealth of chestnut hair gave her a peculiar charm. 
Slight of figure, she moved about with an air of 
quiet elegance, with Von Rodinger in attendance. 
He was tall and stately, with regular features, but 
had at the same time an interesting and sympa¬ 
thetic face. 

Eva scarcely heard what the Baron was telling 
her, and only now and then, for the sake of polite¬ 
ness, made reply; and she was glad when her 
father came and began to discuss with the Baron 
the chances of the horses just cantering up for the 
new start. 



168 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


She leaned over the edge of the box with the 
determination to follow the race and to keep her 
eyes fastened upon the horses now galloping at 
breakneck speed over the green turf, but her 
glance strayed ever in the direction of the tall, 
manly figure standing near the graceful actress 
whom he was privileged to call “Yap.” That 
small word which had seemed so droll was now 
distasteful to her. 

Ten days later Von Rodinger was presented to 
her at a small reception and they discovered that 
they were distantly connected. They were soon 
on good terms and before long sought one another 
out at entertainments and found pleasure in each 
other’s society. He was an interesting talker and 
had seen much of the world. The good impres¬ 
sion which he had made upon her that day at the 
race-course was deepened. 

At the end of the winter she heard that, some 
time previously, for no apparent reason, he had 
sold the chestnut mare. His friends were sur¬ 
prised, as the horse certainly had a future. He 
also had parted in friendship from the other 
“Yap.” 

A fortnight later Eva learned the reason as he 
asked for her hand. She had secretly in the depth 
of her heart been expecting this, but had never had 
the courage to believe it true. 

When winter was gone and summer drew near 
she became his wife. 

She remained always the same demure and 
quietly refined person. Her dress was plain and 
severe, and her hair, combed straight over her 



“ yap” 


169 


finely formed forehead, set off to advantage the 
delicate features of her somewhat pale face. 

The end of the first year brought with it mother¬ 
ly cares which consumed the greater part of her 
time and kept her much at home. Erich had 
often told her it was not necessary to adorn herself 
for him; and if not for him surely it was not neces¬ 
sary to do so for others. She avoided all promi¬ 
nence and rather held herself in the background, 
so that she was rarely spoken of, and, although 
clever, she repressed herself, even before her hus¬ 
band. 

Since the birth of the child she had been much 
alone, as Erich was either in England, Austria, 
or France, where his horses were racing, so that 
generally she began to experience a feeling of ap¬ 
proaching danger that they might become 
estranged. He had worries which she could not 
share at the time they occurred, and when he told 
her of them upon his return she felt powerless, 
because then the troubles had to a large extent 
gone by. 

Once at the theatre “Yap” had been in a box 
opposite them, quite by chance. Eva gave the 
matter no thought afterward, and no allusion was 
ever made to it. They were sitting to all appear¬ 
ance unconcernedly face to face, but at the time 
she felt how restless her husband became by her 
side, and how she as well as he paid little atten¬ 
tion to the play, while his fingers nervously rum¬ 
pled the programme. < 

He was ignorant where and under what circum¬ 
stances Eva had first seen him or that she had any 
idea of the existence of “Yap.” At first she had 



170 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


it in mind to relieve the situation by pleading ill¬ 
ness and going home, but she seemed to be under a 
spell which compelled her to remain. So they 
stayed to the end, but she breathed freely only 
when they were seated in the carriage. Her hus¬ 
band was silent and nervous and treated Eva with 
marked consideration and attention. 

How quiet and dignified “Yap” appeared in 
her box, accompanied by an elderly companion 
and dressed in exquisite taste, more beautiful even 
than before. How unnoticeable and plain Eva 
seemed to herself in her simple costume at the 
side of her husband. 

From that day she began to think frequently of 
“Yap,” and now that she had started to inquire 
she learned all sorts of things about her—how it 
was said that she lived an irreproachable life, that 
gossip could not find the least flaw in her behavior, 
and also that she had made the remark that she 
was only waiting for the day when Erich Von 
Rodinger would return to her. 

Eva now became the victim of apprehension. 
That remark and the confident hope it expressed 
had alarmed her and destroyed her peace of mind. 
Hitherto she had believed the past to be buried, 
but now she became aware that she had a secret 
enemy who was only awaiting a favorable moment 
to triumphantly rob her of her husband. She ex¬ 
perienced actual fear from the day she learned 
casually that Erich had again met “Yap” at the 
races and exchanged a few woLds with her. It 
had been mere chance, and she had no reason to 
believe he would be ridiculous enough to deny it, 
but her reason and judgment were entirely unset- 



“ yap” 


171 


tied. What should she do—what could she do to 
prevent the other one from gaining the victory ? 

She began to make comparisons between herself 
and her rival—comparisons which were not in her 
own favor. She was forced to acknowledge that 
the latter had the advantage over her both in dress 
and attractiveness of manner. “Yap” had also 
the additional charm of being an artist, and Eva 
understood how it must flatter a man to be seen 
with such a woman. 

Eva had never made any use of her social tal¬ 
ents, and as to her appearance, she had given little 
thought to it; she had done nothing to enhance her 
beauty, and still dressed the same as she used to 
do in the small provincial town where it was con¬ 
sidered pride and unpardonable extravagance not 
to wear home-made clothes. And to have an 
opinion of one’s own was something not to be 
thought of unless one were willing to become the 
subject of remark. 

Every now and then it seemed to her as if there 
were intervals of ennui and that Erich longed for 
the society of other women. He had less time to 
spare for her, while she was occupied with the 
child. 

So after hours of torment she finally resolved to 
fight the enemy with her own weapons. 

She was determined not only to conquer him in 
the present instance, but to win him for all time, 
so that no thought of the past should remain. In 
order to be quite sure of success she felt she must 
study her rival, and although her sensibilities re¬ 
belled—she was determined to go to extremes— 



172 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


she made use of the occasional absences of her 
husband to watch her on the stage, at the theatre 
which he purposely avoided. 

Every movement, every mannerism she studied 
—her weeping and her laughter, every tone of her 
voice. When one time she suddenly realized that 
she was forcing herself to laugh like “Yap,” she 
was overcome with mortification, but this in turn 
was banished by her longing to destroy the remem¬ 
brance of this woman in her husband. 

Her vanity and a hitherto latent self-confidence 
combined to give her courage to overcome this 
rival. She was prepared to stake everything on a 
single card; therefore she made no gradual change 
in her mode of life, but waited for an entertainment 
which she was to give, when, uninfluenced by fear 
or hesitation, she intended to carry out her plan. 

People should all at once be confronted with a 
fait accompli. 

In spite of the limited number, the company was 
to be more brilliant than ever before. It was high 
time to make a beginning and show one’s self, she 
said to her astonished husband. She had asked 
him to receive the guests and make her excuses, 
as she had not quite finished her toilet. She was 
also guilty of the impoliteness of waiting until the 
entire company had assembled, although Erich 
had sent for her twice. 

At the door of the drawing-room, behind which 
she heard the buzz of animated conversation, she 
had to stop a moment to quiet her excited nerves. 
Then she stepped into the room, and a burning red 
mounted to her cheeks as she was greeted with an 
“Ah!” of admiration by the company. 



YAP 


173 


a 


)) 


Her husband hurried excitedly toward her, en¬ 
raptured. “Why, Eva!-” 

He took both her hands and only reluctantly let 
them go when every one crowded around to pay 
their respects to the young wife* who in her radiant 
beauty was scarcely to be recognized. The sim¬ 
ple, modestly attired Eva had been transformed 
overnight into an elegantly gowned woman of the 
world. She wore a light-colored evening dress of 
the latest Parisian model, which fitted to perfec¬ 
tion her slight girlish figure, while the low-cut 
bodice showed to the best advantage her beautiful 
neck and shoulders. Her hair, up to this time 
brushed with nun-like severity and only with diffi¬ 
culty kept smooth, had now freed itself from all 
restraint and framed her face with natural waves 
and tiny curls. 

Everything about her seemed changed. She 
spoke differently and acted differently. 

She experienced the peculiar feeling that with 
this fashionable dress and this modish arrange¬ 
ment of the hair she had put on an entirely differ¬ 
ent nature—that she had become another person 
and could not conduct herself otherwise than in 
unison with her costume. 

The admiration intoxicated her: she was more 
lively than she had ever thought of being: she 
laughed and joked, and inwardly gloried in her 
triumph, as she saw Erich almost impolitely in¬ 
attentive to his table companion and constantly 
watching his wife, who seemed a riddle to him. 

Formerly she had not dared to freely express 
her own ideas: to-day for the first time she gained 
confidence enough to assert herself and to uncover 



i 74 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


the workings of her mind; so that she soon became 
the centre of attraction of the company, and sug¬ 
gested .and directed the conversation, while hither¬ 
to in other circles, as well as at home, she had kept 
herself modestly in the background. 

She gained a complete triumph. Her husband - 
was entirely carried away; he fell madly in love 
again with this new being who was his little wife; 
he showed himself zealous in his attentions, not 
after the fashion of a matter-of-fact husband, but 
with the delicate thoughtfulness of a former lover. 

At last she had him completely in her toils. 

Three months had gone by—three happy 
months of enjoyment of victory and confidence 
that “the Yap” had been totally routed. 

There was many an astonished shake of the 
head at the manner in which this quiet little 
woman had changed; there was surprise at her 
mad round of intoxicating pleasures and her 
showy and extravagant costumes, of which, though 
countless in number, she seemed never to have 
enough. 

Three months of triumph—before she awoke to 
the bitter realization of how cruelly she was deceiv¬ 
ing herself. She sat at the window and looked 
down upon the flickering lights of the street, where 
the wind was driving the rain before it. She was 
thinking, and it suddenly dawned upon her that 
she had been acting like an ignorant child who 
had no knowledge of life. 

She believed she had blotted out forever the 
memory of “Yap,” but instead she had only 
called to life the half-forgotten past and awakened 



YAP 


175 


u 


v 


old recollections, and she found her studied imita¬ 
tion and careful copy had stirred up in Erich the 
longing for old times. He had known Eva and 
learned to love her as a quiet, demure maiden; 
the peaceful comfort and simplicity of his home 
had held him captive, then for a time he was daz¬ 
zled by her splendor in the character of a grande 
dame; but this new charm was soon exhausted, 
and then it became only too evident that even the 
old magic had lost its power. 

She had played a daring game—and lost. In 
the comparison between the original and the copy 
“Yap” had gained the victory. Erich returned 
to the one whom Eva had endeavored superficially 
to imitate instead of relying upon the power of her 
own sweet personality. 

Now all hope was gone. She was lost. She 
could not find her way back by the road sh£ had 
come. 

Eva leaned her head against the window-pane 
and pondered. She had no courage for further 
strife and realized that she had thrown away her 
weapons. 

She remained a moment in an attitude of deep 
meditation, and then raising her hands to her tear- 
stained eyes, and pressing her throbbing temples, 
she turned for consolation to her child. 









> 
























































































































THE PEASANT’S WILL 


FROM THE ITALIAN OF 


Antonio Fogazzaro 




































• * 






















THE PEASANT’S WILL 


j N my earlier days I was the assistant of Lawyer 

1 X-, of Vincenza, when one day in August, 

about ten o’clock in the morning, a young peasant 
of Rettorgole came into the office and begged the 
lawyer to go with him to his home for the purpose 
of drawing up the will of his father who was, as he 
expressed it, “mal da morte.” 

My principal assented, and, wishing me to 
accompany him, we all three started off squeezed 
into a rickety country cart without springs and 
drawn by a sorry nag of uneven gait. The seat 
which we occupied was cushionless and hardly 
added to the comfort of two not over-stout indi¬ 
viduals, each accustomed to his own easy-chair. 

X-’s face wore an expression of agony, and he 

cried out at every jolt. I suffered in silence, and 
the peasant imperturbably described the illness 
of his father, a certain Matteo Cucco, nicknamed 
“L’orbo da Rettorgole,” because he had only one 
eye. “But he can see more with that one than 
most people could with three,” remarked the 
afflicted and respectful son. 

We were hardly outside the city when we left 
the main road and turned into a narrow and 


179 



i8o 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


muddy lane running through a succession of low- 
lying meadows, where the cart jolted even more 
than ever, but fortunately we were not long in 
arriving at our destination. We found there a 
miserable tumble-down house planted in the 
midst of mud and mire. A stable, open below 
and with a hay-loft above, was built against one 
end of it, and combined to provide shelter under 
the same roof for man and beast. 

X- and I were about to enter the kitchen 

when our conductor informed us that the sick 
man was not in the house. The heat and filth of 
his room had become such as to make it necessary 
to remove him to the hay-loft. Entrance to this 
was to be had only by climbing a ladder made of 
a single pole with pegs driven through it at inter¬ 
vals to serve as primitive rungs. 

X-immediately flew in a passion at the idea 

of such indignity, and declared it preposterous to 
expect him to mount a ladder of that sort; he said 
he would rather return to town. The young 
peasant who was holding the ladder below kept 
assuring him that it was entirely safe, and another 
peasant who, attracted by the talk, had come to 
the opening into the loft, also took hold of the 
ladder, and shouted— 

“Come up, Signore, don’t be afraid! It’s 
strong.” 

Being younger, and accustomed to feats of 
mountain climbing, besides being urged on by 
curiosity, I determined upon the ascent, and mov¬ 
ing cautiously, succeeded in reaching the loft with¬ 
out mishap. X-, emboldened by my success, 

finally changed his mind and followed. 



THE PEASANT’S WILL 


181 


In the loft was a miserable and filthy straw 
bed, and lying upon it was an old man in rags 
with features like wrinkled parchment, one eye 
entirely closed, and the other almost devoid of 
fife. Though he breathed with difficulty, he did 
not appear to be suffering. Two men stood near 
him, one on either side, both lean and crafty-look- 
ing, and with cleanly-shaven faces. One had a 
branch in his hand and was engaged in fanning 
away the flies from the face of the old man, while 
the other kept putting in the toothless mouth dry 
bread and small bits of cheese. 

“Magne, pare; eat, father!” he said in his 
peasant dialect. 

A little distance off on a bundle of hay sat an old 
woman holding her face in her hands, and farther 
away still were several peasants, evidently wit¬ 
nesses, talking in a low voice. A table, chair and 
inkstand stood ready for our use. We were told 
that the dying man had received absolution early 
the same morning, and that while he was unable 
to speak he understood everything, and would 
make his wishes known by signs. 

As X- hesitated, under the circumstances, 

to proceed with the making of the will, the sons 
volunteered to put their father to the proof. 
Leaning over the dying man, the one who had 
been administering the bread and cheese shouted 
in his ear, “Pare, you left me the pig?” 

The old man shook his head. “No.” 

“ Did you leave it to Tit$, ?” 

There was a nod: “Yes.” 

“And the field of Polegge, to whom will that 
go?” 



182 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


The old man directed his one eye toward the 
young peasant who had brought us. 

“To Gigio; is that what you mean?” 

Again he nodded. 

“Now you see, Sior,” the son concluded, turn¬ 
ing to X-, “I am not mistaken.” 

The latter, however, was not yet satisfied and 
began to question the wife, the old woman crouch¬ 
ing in the hay*. With a sudden outburst of words 
she confirmed what had been said in regard to her 
husband, and insisted that he was in full posses¬ 
sion of all his faculties, since only half an hour 
before he had objected to the veterinary bleeding 
one of the oxen which had fallen sick. She added 
that she knew exactly his intentions as to the dis¬ 
tribution of the property. 

While she seemed agitated and spoke in an 
excited manner, she was to all appearances telling 
the truth, and had no intention of deceiving the 
lawyer in her answers to his questions concerning 
the heirs and the amount of property. According 
to her statements there were only the three chil¬ 
dren, the sons now present, and the property con¬ 
sisted of about fifty acres of good farm land, part 
at Polegge and part in Rettorgole, another house, 
live-stock, farm implements, and numerous small 
articles. 

What the old woman had said was confirmed by 
her sons, and also by the other witnesses.. The 
lawyer suggested that the estate be divided in 
some general manner among the heirs, but this 
was objected to by all’; wife, sons and witnesses 
as well. They insisted that it was the wish of the 
old man to assign everything specifically. 



THE PEASANT’S WILL 


183 


One of the witnesses, a man of rather better 
appearance and manners than the rest, came for¬ 
ward, and offering his snuff-box to the lawyer with 
an evident air of commiseration for the ignorance 
of his fellows, and of satisfaction at his own su¬ 
perior knowledge, he said: 

“Matteo is near his end, and there is no time 
to settle the distribution in a strictly legal man¬ 
ner.” 

X- thereupon concluded to let the matter 

go, and when I had made ready to write down 
from his dictation, he began his questioning, and 
by means of nods and shakes of the head there 
passed to the ownership of Gigio, Tita and 
Checco, the three sons of the testator, the houses, 
the land, cattle, horses, pigs, etc., even to the 
broken-down cart. 

“And your wife,” exclaimed X-. “Do you 

not wish to leave something to your wife?” 

The old man shook his head, and all, including 
the wife herself, agreed that this was his recog¬ 
nized wish. 

“But,” said X-, “the law particularly pro¬ 

vides for cases such as this, and we must not dis¬ 
regard it.” 

“Sior,” said the old woman, stoically, “law or 
no law, I will not touch anything. I will go hun¬ 
gry now and starve in the future sooner than do 
so.” 

My principal thereupon allowed the woman to 
have her way, and began to read the items of the 
will in a loud voice. I had given him my seat and 
was standing beside him while he read. 

Just then a cock flew through the opening of the 





184 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


loft and began to crow, and turning in the direc¬ 
tion of the sound I saw a young peasant woman, 
flushed and out of breath, with a babe in her 
arms. 

“What are they doing here?” she cried out, 
fixing upon me two flashing eyes, “are they rob¬ 
bing me and my child ?” 

At this remark confusion ensued, and the old 
woman and all three of her sons sprang up and 
rushed upon the newcomer. 

X-arose to his feet and commanded them 

all to be still. 

“Who is this woman?” he asked, authorita¬ 
tively. The mother hastily replied— 

“I will tell you, Sior, who she is. She is our 
daughter, but she is good-for-nothing. I want you 
to understand that her father will not give her a 
single thing-” 

“What, you too, mother?” interrupted the girl 
bitterly. “I can stand my brothers treating me 
like a dog, but you, mother—I don’t care for 
them, but you—you are my own mother, and yet 
you would betray me. What can you say against 
me, and what against my husband?” 

“Enough, enough,” cried X-. “Shame on 

you all. The very first who opens his mouth I 
will have arrested for perjury.” 

The sons were white with rage, the witnesses 
shrunk away with terror, and mother and daugh¬ 
ter glared at one another with a look of hatred and 

menace, but no one dared utter a word as X- 

furiously tore the will into fragments. 

All of a sudden the daughter started forward, 
and without hindrance from anyone went straight 



THE PEASANT’S WILL 


185 


to where the dying man lay, and put the babe 
down by his side. 

“Pare!” she cried, “Pare! do you want me to 
die of hunger ? At least leave me a bowl of 1 po¬ 
lenta’ for my child!” A scowl passed over the 
face of the old man, and unable to show any other 
sign of hostility he closed his one remaining eye. 

I shall never forget the picture of the two heads 
on the pillow: the beginning and end of life. One 
with the laughing eyes and dimpled rosy cheeks 
of the “bambino,” and the other a dying man’s 
contracted features, with hollow face darkened by 
the shadow of death. The idea that the evil spirit 
was hovering above both, ready to claim one of 
the two as his victim, caused me to shudder. 

At this point the village priest appeared, a sim¬ 
ple, kind-hearted man whom I had met once 
before. He saw the child on the bed and thought 
a reconciliation had been effected. 

“So at last all is well. God be praised!” he 
said, feelingly. He leaned over and felt the pulse 
of the dying man. 

The child began to cry, and its mother made a 
move to take it in her arms, but the priest would 
not permit. 

“Leave the ‘bambino’ there,” he said, “Mat- 
teo’s time has come. Let him pass to the other 
world with an angel to guide him,” and he com¬ 
menced to recite the prayers for the dying. 

X-, with little liking for such scenes, pre¬ 

ferred to risk the descent of the ladder, and I 
hastened to assist him, but before going down 
myself, I turned to satisfy my curiosity with one 
last look. 



RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


186 


Sons and witnesses had disappeared, I could not 
tell where. The young mother had taken her 
babe and was busy trying to quiet it with kisses 
and caresses, as if the child alone was worthy of 
attention; and the old woman, faithful to the last 
to the man whom she had slaved for with a brut¬ 
ish devotion, was kneeling by his side, praying. 

I descended the ladder and with X-wan¬ 

dered back to the town along fields of ripening 
grain, across meadows gay with flowers, and 
under rows of poplar trees joined together by fes¬ 
toons of vines from which hung clusters of already 
darkening grapes; and as we went along I won¬ 
dered how all this innocence of nature, this beauty 
of flower and this blessing of fruit, could nourish 
in the human heart such despicable greed and 
bitter hatred. 

“I cannot understand,” I said to X-, “it 

seems to me there must be something wrong in the 
methods which man employs for making use of all 
the glorious gifts of God.” 

“I fear that is true,” he replied, “and that the 
mistake arises from the worst and most original 
of all sins—the sin of selfishness. But let us leave 
its solution to the Creator and to mankind. To¬ 
gether they will surely some time find a remedy.” 





THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF 
MADAME ESQUOLLIER 

FROM THE FRENCH OF 

Pierre Louys 

















































* 






















































• ♦ 









THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF 
MADAME ESQUOLLIER 


I 

I TPON leaving the opera, accompanied by her 
^ young sister Armande, Madame Esquollier 
seated herself in her coupe-automobile. 

“Well,” she said, “your impression?” 

“In the first place, physically, he is delight¬ 
ful.” 

“Good! No need of going further. You are 
struck, dearie. Embrace me. It is all settled.” 

They embraced with tenderness, but Armande 
protested. 

“No, no, you are going too fast, Madeleine. 
What good will it do that he pleases me. I have 
displeased him. He has spent an hour in criti¬ 
cising me, and I, like a goose, deserved it.” 

“In what way?” 

“My dress was too elaborate, it seems. It was 
not the dress of a young girl—it was the dress of 
an actress.” 

“What insolence!” 

“That is not all, my dear. He thinks it pecu- 

189 



I90 RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


liar that I should be taken to the opera the night 
of a ballet. His own father and mother were only 
allowed to see “Zampa” and the “Rendez-vous 
bourgeois,” pieces quite proper, in his opinion. I, 
however, had the misfortune to tell him that 
“Zampa” was a story of abduction, and he gazed 
at me with a look of horror. I also remarked 
that “ the Rendez-vous bourgeois ” was a lesson to 
young girls as to the best way to introduce a gentle¬ 
man into their boudoirs—at which he turned quite 
pale.” 

“And what else?” 

“ I do not know. I was on edge to the tip of my 
finger nails. He admired me, of that I was cer¬ 
tain, and I took pleasure in scandalizing him so 
that he should admire me as well with my faults; 
but I fear I went too far.” 

“What in the world did you say to him?” 

rt I pointed out in the corner of the stage those 
two young Italian girls you told me about the 
other day, and confided to him-” 

“Did you give the details?” 

“Yes.” 

“Impossible! That was a facer.” 

“Was it not?” 

“And what did he say?” 

“He really did not seem to understand.” 

Madeleine smothered a laugh, and added, dis¬ 
regarding any ideas her sister might have on the 
subject: 

“My dear, this man is a jewel. I shall not 
allow you to miss such a husband. You must 
marry him. He is priceless.” Then, without 
pausing: “Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed. “Doyou 



ADVENTURE OF MME. ESQUOLLIER 191 


realize that we have been rolling along for twenty 
minutes. Where can we be going?” 

Armande wiped away the moisture which had 
befogged the window-pane, and said, “I can see 
nothing; it is absolutely dark.” 

“ What ? Dark ? In the Champs Elysees ? ” 

She in turn leaned forward, peered into the 
darkness, and perceived vaguely the signs of a 
country road not bordered by houses. 

“I-” she stammered, “I don’t know where 

we are. This is not Paris; Alexandre has gone 
mad. Stop him.” 

Hastily she touched the electric button. But 
scarcely had the sharp tones of the bell sounded 
in the night, when a sudden “click-click” of ma¬ 
chinery was heard near the front seat, and the 
vehicle with a jolt forged ahead at full speed. 


II 

The shock threw the two sisters back in their 
places, and they cried with one voice: 

“Ah! MonDieu!” 

Madeleine lowered her head and through the 
window in front looked toward the box seat. 

“Mon Dieu!” she said again. “It is not Alex¬ 
andre!” 

“Impossible!” 

“We are being kidnapped. It is not Alexan¬ 
dre, I am sure.” 

“I am going to jump.” 

“Armande, you are crazy; we are going forty 
miles an hour; you would kill yourself.” 



ig2 


. RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Had they not been together, each of them would 
have jumped, but through a feeling similar to that 
which we experience on the edge of a precipice, 
when the peril of our companions causes us 
greater vertigo than our own danger, Armande 
and Madeleine each thought at the same instant: 
“I could jump, but she—she would kill herself.” 

They sought one another’s hands, clasped them 
tremblingly, and pressed them tightly against the 
leather-covered seat. The speed of the coupe 
continued. In crossing a gutter the sudden 
shock first flattened the springs and then lifted 
two of the wheels off the ground, causing them to 
whirl around in the air. The automobile shook 
violently, rebounded, and trembling for an instant 
resumed its rapid course with everything again 
running smoothly, like a river below the rapids. 

Huddled together in the back of the carriage, 
the two sisters, transfixed with terror, remained 
speechless. Madeleine, with her experience of 
life and knowledge of men, thought: “If they 
will only stop just short of killing us!” There 
was no consolation for Armande even in this des¬ 
perate hope. She was not sufficiently ingenuous 
to be ignorant of what might await her, and the 
poor girl became beside herself with terror. 

Alas! She had formed of her first love an idea 
so poetical and at the same time so precise! She 
had dreamed so many nights of what she intended 
it to be in order to prove worthy of her vain and 
sentimental little soul! So many nights she had 
sworn to wind about her finger the object of this 
first love, if only to spite others! She had already 
foreseen the accomplishment of this in the shad- 



ADVENTURE OF MME. ESQUOLLIER 193 


owy mists of happy dreams on the eve of her en¬ 
gagement—and all was now to be wrecked in 
this adventure. 

“Madeleine!” she cried of a sudden, “I prefer 
to jump; it is a better end.” 

But at the same moment the automobile almost 
stopped, turned, passed through a gate, crossed 
a large deserted court, and drew up before a flight 
of steps. 

Madeleine murmured, “It is too late, my dear.” 

A man of about forty years, bald, well dressed, 
obsequious, came to open the door and bowed. 

Armande uttered a cry: “Monsieur, kill me! 
kill me!” and added naively, “but don’t touch 
me!” 

“Mademoiselle,” said the unknown, “I shall 
not touch you in any manner, but be kind enough 
to follow me, as time presses. It is useless to cry 
out: the house stands alone in the midst of a 
wood.” 

Madeleine alighted first, Armande followed, 
but was so weak that she missed the step. She 
had to be supported. A pale moonlight, just 
breaking through, silvered the opera cloaks, the 
two livid faces, and the hair carefully coiffured. 

They entered through the vestibule. The 
whole house was lighted. The unknown, preced¬ 
ing the victims, crossed a tiled hall, two drawing¬ 
rooms, and a small reception room. He passed 
down a corridor which seemed to encircle the 
entire chateau, and which upset their bearings. 
Finally he opened a last door, motioned the two 
ladies to enter, and without accompanying them 
locked them in. 


13 



194 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


In the room in which they found themselves 
was standing a woman of mature age, who bowed. 
She was dressed in black. 

“ Madame—Mademoiselle-” Then without 

further preamble, her hard, dry voice articulated, 
“Would you permit me to disrobe you?” 

“What? Us—us?” stammered Madeleine. 
She did not complete the sentence. The old dame 
had already unhooked the clasp of her cloak, 
taken the pins from the belt, and let the dress slip 
down over the petticoat. With the same dexterity 
her bony fingers unfastened the hooks of the bod¬ 
ice and the shoulder-straps glided down the unre¬ 
sisting powdered arms. 

“You now, Mademoiselle,” again spoke the 
same dry voice. Already pale, Armande grew 
deadly white. She glanced hopelessly toward her 
sister, who had thrown herself upon a divan, 
shaken from head to foot by nervous shock. 
Without defence, force or courage she abandoned 
herself like one dead to the hands which were 
disrobing her. 

The old dame took the two ball dresses over her 
left arm, quickly left the room, and closed and 
locked the door behind her. 

The young girl had remained standing. She 
now fell on her knees before an arm-chair, burst 
into sobs, and began to pray. She prayed almost 
at the top of her voice, letting her tears fall into 
her clasped hands, with a fervor at the same time 
terrifying, stammering and mournful. 

She invoked the three saints who had always 
protected her—promised to one, tapers; to the 
other, alms; and to the third, a cup for the altar 



ADVENTURE OF MME. ESQUOLLIER I95 


bought at a high-priced shop. She swore to make 
a “neuvaine,” to fast during Lent without asking 
any exemption, and made a vow in case she mar¬ 
ried not to deceive her husband during the whole 
first year, up to three hundred and sixty-five days, 
no matter what the circumstances might be. 

Time passed. The clock in the room struck 
four. Madeleine, cramped up on the divan, lifted 
her stiffened arms, and gave the back of that piece 
of furniture repeated blows with her fists. 

“I’ve had enough of this! I’ve had enough of 
it! It’s horrible, this waiting! I shall be dead 
when they arrive! Think of torturing two poor 
women so! What do they want to do with us, 
these monsters! Why don’t they come! Why 
don’t they come!” 

And then in a fit of tenderness they threw them¬ 
selves into one another’s arms. 

“My darling! My Armande! My little Ar- 
mande! My dear little beloved sister! Fear noth¬ 
ing, my love; I will defend you. With me it is of 
not so much importance—but with you—I will 
not let them, touch you. They shall not touch 
you. I will cover you with my own body.” 

A step was heard echoing in the passage. 

“Seigneur! Mon Dieu! Here they come!” 

Ill 

The key turned in the lock with such a grating 
noise that Armande uttered a cry of distress, as 
if the worst had already come. In the open door, 
however, appeared only the old dame, carrying 
on her arm the two dresses. The young women 



196 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


had shrunk back into the furthest corner of the 
room. 

“Madame—Mademoiselle—” said the same 
dry, hard voice, “would you permit me to dress 
you?” 

“What?” said Madeleine. “But I—why, 
I-” 

The old woman paid no attention to their 
amazement, which did not seem to disturb her in 
the least; wonderfully expert in fastening hooks 
and eyes as she had shown herself to be in unfas¬ 
tening them, she put on the two robes as she had 
taken them off, arranged the neck, fluffed out the 
laces, pressed down the folds of the skirts, and 
retired with a bow. 

In her place the unknown entered. 

He was in evening dress with white gloves, and 
looked rather more like a maitre d’hotel than a 
man of the world—but how slight is the difference! 

“Mesdames,” said he calmly, “my first inten¬ 
tion was to have you conducted home with some 
simple excuse, without giving further explanation 
of the mystery of your abduction, but feminine 
curiosity is an element upon which one must not 
too much depend. If I do not tell you my secret 
you will endeavor to learn it, and if by so doing 
you involve yourself you will also involve me. 
It is to my interest, therefore, to explain, so that 
you will seek no further.” 

He closed his eyes, opened them again, and 
proceeded with a smile. “You are wearing to¬ 
night two of the smartest dresses in Paris.” 

“Mon Dieu,” said Madeleine, with a gesture of 
surprise, “and was it for that!-” 



ADVENTURE OF MME. ESQUOLLIER 197 


“ One of my customers, a young foreigner, saw 
the two dresses Monday at the opera. She in¬ 
sisted upon having the same at no matter what 
price. It goes without saying that I would have 
been able to copy their general appearance and 
the touches which give them a style of their own 
without the aid of any stratagem, since the glance 
of a couturier photographs a corsage with the 
certainty of a negative, but your costumes are 
covered with designs of embroidery the pattern 
of which is absolutely confusing even for an ex¬ 
pert. One could not possibly.copy that without 
spreading out smoothly on a cutting board both 
the skirt and the corsage. It was necessary, there¬ 
fore, Mesdames, that I should obtain these.” 

He took a chair by the back, leaned on it, and 
continued: 

“The most simple way would have been to pro¬ 
cure them from your maid, paying her accordingly. 
Naturally, I thought of this, but unfortunately for 
me the girl was stupid. In the event of discov¬ 
ery, suit and case in court (one must foresee 
everything), she could never have resisted for five 
minutes the cross-examination of the Magistrate. 
As she was acting for me I would have been ar¬ 
rested also—a fine ending for an artist of my 
standing.” 

“ So I preferred to play a more daring game, and 
to gain possession of the dresses together with 
what they contained. This, at least, was worthy 
of me.” The two sisters, overcome by this au¬ 
dacity, looked at each other speechless. 

“I therefore bribed your chauffeur and re¬ 
placed him by my own. The exchange was made 



RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


198 


in the Rue Auber, during the block which always 
takes place after the opera. The same devoted 
servitor (it is of mine I am speaking now) will re- 
conduct you home. Two ladies can very prop¬ 
erly return from a ball at six o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing without astonishing any one; you will conse¬ 
quently not be compromised. Your interest, of 
course, is to keep absolute silence in regard to this 
matter, since there is no need to tell you that if 
you relate the adventure your friends will repeat 
it—with a certain smile.” 

Madeleine did not appear to understand the in¬ 
sult. She was too overjoyed to escape from this 
frightful nightmare, and in addition she felt her¬ 
self absolutely powerless before the assurance of 
this man. 

She leaned toward Armande. “It is a blessing 
that my husband is not at home! What luck that 
he happens to be away shooting!” 

“Shooting?” said the couturier, “I think my 
information is better. It was indispensable for 
my plans that your husband should be absent 
this night. Some one very much a la mode took 
a sudden fancy to him.” 

“What is that you say?” 

He added, bowing, “That has been the most 
expensive part of it.” 


IV 

The next morning Madame Esquollier suc¬ 
ceeded in keeping her counsel with respect to this 
adventure, as, overcome by fatigue and emotion, 
she slept till two o’clock. But her bosom friend, 



ADVENTURE OF MME. ESQUOLLIER 199 


Madame de Lalette, having forced her way in to 
see her, Madeleine experienced the irresistible 
desire to throw herself upon her tenderness, so 
she revealed to her the dramatic event. 

After she had related all, even to the last word, 
she took her friend by both hands and made her 
swear positively not to tell^any one, and explained 
fully that she could not seek redress as the knowl¬ 
edge of the affair would cover her with ridicule 
and perhaps give rise to scandal; that, provided 
she did not follow it up, it was better to conceal it 
altogether, and not to reveal to a living soul what 
had happened, because the world would under¬ 
stand even less why she kept silent if the affair 
became known. In short, she depended abso¬ 
lutely on the discretion of her dear Yvonne. 

Madame de Lalette promised. Unfortunately, 
the story was too good to stop there. Women 
keep small secrets only for the purpose of some 
day obtaining and being able to reveal a large 
one. 

The same evening Madame de Lalette was in 
a company where she counted a dozen friends as 
discreet as herself (and that was saying a great 
deal), and under the seal of absolute secrecy she 
related the fantastic abduction. 

The story was told with much elaboration. At 
no time did she give the slightest intimation that 
the adventure was to terminate by a denouement 
of comedy. The effect of the first part was start¬ 
ling. Her friends cried “How horrible!” They 
all imagined themselves carried off in a phantom 
automobile by a mysterious chauffeur. The im¬ 
pression was so real that it lasted up to the end— 



200 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


a concert of indignation was heard as she related 
the closing remarks of the infamous couturier. 

“Truly,” said one, “anything can take place 
nowadays!” 

“An abduction from the opera!” 

“Paris is becoming uninhabitable!” 

“We are living among Apaches!” 

An old maid did not lose the opportunity to add 
that the fortunate termination of the affair was 
due to a miracle, for if the young Armande had 
not made vows things would have resulted very 
differently for her. 

Another protested that she would not- dare go 
out without an escort after sundown, and that she 
would always carry in her corsage a poisoned dag¬ 
ger with the word “Muerte” engraved on the 
blade, now that melodrama was becoming real 
life. 

Madame de Lalette alone said nothing, leaving 
her recital without comment. 

“And you, Yvonne? What do you think about 
it?” asked a small voice. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“I? Oh! I think—I think-” 

“Well?” 

“I think it is a very roundabout way to explain 
getting home at seven o’clock in the morning!” 

Then an explosion of merriment took place 
among the dozen friends, and in the midst of 
shrieks of laughter, of exclamations and of ap¬ 
plause, one heard the little piercing voice pipe up 
with delight : 

“Ah, cherie!—what a rogue you are!” 



ADIOS CORDERA! 


FROM THE SPANISH OF 


Leopoldo Alas 






















































































ADIOS CORDERA! 


'"PHEY were three—always the same three— 
* Rosa, Pinin, and “La Cordera.” 

The meadow “ Somonte ” was a triangular patch 
of velvety green spread out like a carpet at the foot 
of the hill. Its lower angle extended as far as the 
railway track from Oviedo to Gijon, and a tele¬ 
graph post standing like a flag-pole in the corner 
of the field represented to Rosa and Pinin the 
world without; a world unknown, mysterious, and 
forever to be dreaded and ignored. 

Pinin, after seriously considering the subject as 
he watched from day to day this tranquil and in¬ 
offensive post, finally came to the conclusion that 
it was trying its best to be simply a dried tree, 
nothing more, and to give the impression that its 
glass cups were some strange fruit, so he gained 
sufficient confidence to climb up almost to the 
wires. He never went as far as the cups, for they 
reminded him too strongly of some of the sacred 
vessels in the church, and he was able to shake off 
a feeling of awe only when he had slid down again 
and planted his feet safely on the green sod. 

203 



204 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Rosa, less audacious, but more enamoured of 
the unknown, contented herself with sitting be¬ 
neath the telegraph post for hours at a time and 
listening to the wind as it drew a weird metallic 
song from the wires and mingled it with sighs from 
the heart of the pine. 

At times these vibrations seemed to be music, 
and then again to Rosa they were whispers travel¬ 
ling along the wires from an unknown to an un¬ 
known. She had no curiosity to learn what peo¬ 
ple on opposite sides of the world were saying to 
one another. It mattered naught to her; she only 
listened to the sound with its melody and mystery. 

“La Cordera,” having lived to a mature age, 
was more matter-of-fact than her companions. 
She held aloof from contact with the world and 
contemplated the telegraph pole from a distance 
as purely an inanimate object of no use except to 
rub against. 

“La Cordera” was a cow who had seen much 
of life, and for hours together she lay in the meadow 
passing her time meditating rather than feeding, 
enjoying the tranquillity of life, the gray sky, the 
peaceful earth, and seeking to improve her mind. 

She joined in the games of the children, whose 
duty it was to guard her, and had she been able 
she would have smiled at the idea that Rosa and 
Pinin were charged with her care—she! “La 
Cordera!”—with keeping her in the pasture and 
preventing her from jumping the fence and stray¬ 
ing along the railway track. Just as if she would 
be inclined to jump! Why should she meddle 
with the railway track ? 

It was her pleasure to graze quietly, selecting 



adios cordera! 


205 


with care the choicest morsels without raising her 
head to look about in idle curiosity, and after that 
to lie down and either to meditate or else to taste 
the delights of simply not suffering; just to exist— 
that was all she cared to do; other things were 
dangerous undertakings. Her peace of mind had 
only been disturbed at the inauguration of the 
railway, when she had become almost beside her¬ 
self with terror at seeing the first train pass. She 
had jumped the stone wall into the neighboring 
field and joined the other cattle in their wild 
antics; and her fear had lasted for several days, 
recurring with more or less violence every time 
the engine appeared at the mouth of the tunnel. 

Little by little she realized that the train was 
harmless, a peril which always passed by, a catas¬ 
trophe which threatened but did not strike. She 
therefore reduced her precautions and ceased to 
put herself on the defensive by lowering her head. 
Later on she gazed at the train without even get¬ 
ting up, and ended by entirely losing her antipathy 
and distrust and not looking at it at all. 

In Rosa and Pinin the novelty of the railway 
produced impressions much more agreeable. In 
the beginning it brought excitement mixed with 
superstitious dread; the children danced wildly 
about and gave vent to loud shrieks; then there 
came a kind of quiet diversion, repeated several 
times a day as they watched the huge iron snake 
glide rapidly by with its burden of strange 
people. 

But the railway and telegraph furnished inci¬ 
dents of only short duration, and these were soon 
swallowed up in the sea of solitude which sur- 



2o6 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


rounded the meadow “Somonte;” then no living 
being was to be seen, nor sound from the outside 
world to be heard. 

Morning after morning under the burning rays 
of the sun and amid the hum of swarming insects 
the children and the cow watched for the approach 
of noon to return to the house, and on the long, 
melancholy afternoons they again awaited the 
coming of night. 

The shadows lengthened, the birds became 
quiet, and here and there a star appeared in the 
darkest part of the sky. The souls of the children 
reflected the serenity of solemn and serious nature, 
and seated near “La Cordera” they maintained a 
dreamy silence, broken only now and then by the 
soft tinkle of the cowbell. 

The children, inseparable as the two halves of 
a green fruit, were united in an affection existing 
by reason of their scanty knowledge of what was 
distinct in them and what made them two. This 
affection was extended to “La Cordera,” the 
motherly cow, and as far as she was able she re¬ 
turned in her undemonstrative way the love of 
the children who were charged with guarding her. 
She showed wonderful patience and toleration 
when, included in their imaginative games, she 
was subjected to no very gentle usage, and gave 
evidence at all times of quiet and thoughtful con¬ 
sideration. 

Only recently had Anton de Chinta, the child¬ 
ren’s father, acquired possession of the meadow 
“Somonte” and “La Cordera” enjoyed the privi¬ 
lege of such succulent pasture. She had pre¬ 
viously been compelled to wander along the public 



ADIOS CORDERA! 


207 


roads and obtain her food from the scant herbage 
which grew along their borders. 

In those times of poverty, Pinin and Rosa 
sought out for her the most favorable spots, and in 
many ways guarded her against the indignities to 
which animals are exposed who have to look for 
fodder on public lands, and in the lean and hungry 
days of the stable when hay was scarce and turnips 
not to be had the cow owed to the children a thou¬ 
sand little attentions which served to make life 
more bearable. Then, too, during those heroic 
times between the birth and weaning of her calves, 
when the inevitable question arose as to how much 
milk the Chintas should have and what was neces¬ 
sary for her own offspring, it was at such times 
that Pinin and Rosa were always found taking 
sides with “ La Cordera.” They would secretly let 
loose the young calf, which, wild with delight and 
stumbling over everything in its path, would rush 
to seek food and shelter underneath the ample 
body of its mother, while the latter would turn her 
head toward the children with a look of tenderness 
and gratitude. 

Such ties could never be broken and such memo¬ 
ries never be effaced. 

Anton de Chinta had come to the conclusion 
that he was born under an unlucky star, and that 
his golden dreams of gradually increasing his 
stable were not to be fulfilled; for, having pro¬ 
cured the one cow by means of a thousand econo¬ 
mies and privations, he not only failed to acquire 
a second, but finally found himself behind in his 
rent. He saw in “La Cordera” his only available 



208 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


asset, and realized that she must be sold in spite 
of the fact that she was considered one of the 
family, and that his wife with her last breath had 
referred to the cow as their future mainstay. 

As the mother lay upon her deathbed, in a room 
separated from the stable only by a partition of 
interwoven cornstalks, she turned her weary eyes 
toward “La Cordera” as if to silently entreat her 
to be a second mother to the children, and to 
supply that affection which the father could not 
understand. 

Anton de Chinta appreciated this in an indefi¬ 
nite way, and consequently said nothing to the 
children of the necessity for selling the cow. 

One Saturday morning at daybreak, he took 
advantage of the fact that Rosa and Pinin were 
still asleep, and started with a heavy heart for 
Gijon, driving “La Cordera” before him. 

When the children awoke they were at a loss to 
explain the cause of his sudden departure, but felt 
sure the cow must have accompanied him much 
against her will; and when at evening the father, 
tired and covered with dust, brought the animal 
back, and would give no explanation of his 
absence, the children apprehended danger. 

The cow had not been sold. With the sophistry 
of tenderness and affection he had put the selling 
price so high that no one would pay it, and had 
scowled at any prospective purchaser presumptu¬ 
ous enough even to approach the amount upon 
which he obstinately insisted. He quieted his con¬ 
science with the argument that surely he had been 
willing to sell; the fault lay with the others who 
were not willing to pay “La Cordera’s” value. So 



ADIOS CORDERA! 


209 


he had taken the road home again, accompanied by 
a number of neighboring farmers who were driving 
their livestock before ‘them and experiencing more 
or less difficulty according to the length of ac¬ 
quaintance between master and beast. 

From the day when Pinin and Rosa began to sus¬ 
pect that there was trouble in store they had no 
peace of mind, and their worst fears were soon 
afterward confirmed by the appearance of the 
landlord with threats of eviction. 

“La Cordera” must therefore be sold, and per¬ 
haps only for the price of a breakfast. 

The following Saturday Pinin accompanied his 
father to a neighboring market-town, where the 
child looked in horror at the butchers armed with 
their weapons of slaughter. To one of these the 
animal was sold, and after being branded was 
driven back to her stable, the bell tinkling sadly 
all the way. 

Anton was silent, the eyes of the boy were red 
and swollen, , and Rosa, upon hearing of the sale, 
put her arms around “La Cordera’s” neck and 
sobbed. 

The next few days were sad ones in the meadow 
‘‘ Somonte. ” “La Cordera , 9 ’ ignorant of her fate, 
was as calm and placid as she would continue to 
be up to the moment when the brutal blow of the 
axe was given; but Pinin and Rosa could do noth¬ 
ing but lie stretched out on the grass in continued 
silence, disconsolate in regard to the future. 

They cast looks of hatred at the telegraph wires 
and the passing trains which were connected with 
that world so distant from all their comprehension 

14 



210 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


—the world which was robbing them of their only 
friend and companion. 

A few days later the separation took place; the 
butcher came and brought the money agreed upon. 
He was asked by Anton to take a draught of wine, 
and forced to listen to the extraordinary virtues of 
the cow. The father could not believe that “La 
Cordera” was not going to another master where 
she would be well treated and happy, and excited 
by the wine and the weight of the money in his 
pocket, he continued to extoll her domestic quali¬ 
ties, her milk-giving capacity, and strength under 
the yoke. The other only smiled as he realized 
what destiny awaited her. 

Pinin and Rosa, clasping one another’s hands, 
stood watching the enemy from a distance, and 
thinking sadly of the past, with its memories of 
“La Cordera/’ and before she was finally led 
away they flung themselves upon her neck and 
covered it with kisses. The children followed 
some distance down the narrow road and formed 
a melancholy group with the indifferent driver 
and the reluctant cow. Finally they stopped and 
stood watching the animal as it slowly disappeared 
in the shadows of the bordering hedges. 

Their foster mother was lost to them forever. 

“Adios, Cordera!” cried Rosa, bursting into 
tears, “Adios Cordera de mio alma.” 

“Adios, Cordera,” repeated Pinin, his voice 
choked with emotion. “Adios,” answered sadly 
and for the last time the distant cowbell, and then 
its piteous lamentation was lost among other 
sounds of the night. 

Early the following day, Pinin and Rosa went to 



ADIOS CORDERA! 


211 


the meadow “Somonte.” Never had its solitude 
been so oppressive; never had it seemed a desert 
waste until now. 

Suddenly smoke appeared at the mouth of the 
tunnel, and then came the train. In a box-like 
car, pierced with narrow windows, could be seen 
the forms of closely packed cattle. 

The children shook their fists at the train, more 
convinced than ever of the rapacity of the world. 

“They are taking her to the slaughter!” 

“Adios, Cordera!” 

“Adios, Cordera!” 

And Pinin and Rosa gazed with hatred upon 
the railway and the telegraph, those symbols of 
the cruel world which was taking away their com¬ 
panion of so many years for the satisfaction merely 
of its gluttonous appetite. 

“Adios, Cordera!” 

“Adios, Cordera!” 




THE SOUDAN 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 


Max Hoffman 



































v 


















































THE SOUDAN 


'“F HE silent moonlight hovers over the desert, 
* blue-black arches the tropical sky above 
the unending yellowish plain, and the glistening 
stars overhead are like tightly driven golden nails, 
so fixed, so motionless. 

On the edge of the desert the Dervish hordes are 
encamped. Hard driven by the troops of the Sir¬ 
dar, they have finally halted to rest, and, dis¬ 
mounted, are lying scattered about, giving them¬ 
selves up to well-deserved repose. On all sides 
outposts on the alert peer sharply into the dis¬ 
tance, grasping their long guns, and ready at the 
slightest suspicious sign to alarm the camp with 
a shot. 

In the centre of the encampment rises the tent 
of the Khalifa Abdullah, the successor of the 
Mahdi. He, the chosen one of the Prophet, has 
escaped, and, according to the blind faith of his 
followers, will rally together a new host. Then this 
small remaining handful will increase—will swell 
like the waves of the Nile at the time of the great 
flood, and these hated Englishmen will be swept 
215 



2l6 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


away and destroyed. Think how he will vent his 
rage upon them—how he will kill and mutilate, or 
lead them away as slaves. Then will the breath 
of his revenge be wafted far North and the flag of 
the Prophet wave over devastated towns. 

A few prisoners, not more than twenty, have 
been taken, and in spite of the wild flight their 
captors have dragged them along in fetters, so that 
they might enjoy the sight of their misery. Not 
far from the tent of the leader the unfortunate 
victims are lying, thrown down like so many sacks, 
Arabs, Egyptians, Soudanese, and one white man 
—a young Englishman. All are wounded except 
he, and his long, slender figure, his flaxen hair and 
his blond moustache could not fail to attract at¬ 
tention in this motley crowd of closely packed 
black or dark-brown human beings. Around his 
feet, his hands, and his body is twisted an iron 
chain, so that any motion is either impossible or 
at least painful. Yet he sleeps. He lies like one 
dead and his countenance wears a peaceful ex¬ 
pression. 

Deep silence! The quiet of weariness pervades 
the whole camp. Only within the tent of the 
Khalifa is there sign of life. “The Master knows 
no sleep,” his followers say, and after a short 
parley with some of the leaders he starts out to 
make alone the circuit of the camp, in order to see 
that his commands for protection and defence have 
been carried out. 

Slowly he raises the curtain of his tent and 
cautiously, like a cat, steals forth and picks his 
way through the rows of sleepers. His lips mur¬ 
mur unintelligible words. His whole form is 



THE SOUDAN 


217 


wrapped in a white burnous, but his glistening 
eyes shine forth like those of a bloodthirsty tiger. 
His darkly outlined shadow dogs his footsteps, and 
glides, now over the sand, now over the rows of 
sleeping warriors. He goes slowly to even the 
farthest outpost, noting all things sharply, then, 
after gazing a moment into the distance, turns 
back silently toward camp and his tent. 

He passes by the prisoners. His features as¬ 
sume an expression of malicious satisfaction. 
Here and there he kicks one of them. They either 
move with a whine or change position with a 
shudder. Now he stands as one transfixed; he is 
near the young Englishman, and glares down on 
him with rage and hatred. The young man lies 
still; on his frank, open face falls the bright moon¬ 
light, and a peaceful smile flitters now and again 
across his countenance. 

Of what is he dreaming? Of the soft evening 
breeze on the wave-washed sands of the Isle of 
Wight ? Of cricket on the green fields of Oxford ? 
Does he dream of his proud lady love with her 
graceful, slender form, her golden hair, and her 
rosy cheeks? 

Suddenly, as he stands there watching, the 
Khalifa is overcome with maddening rage. Furi¬ 
ously he seizes the sword hanging at his side. 
“Dog,” he shrieks, “do you dream of the delights 
of Paradise ? Then you shall go there! ” and with 
a powerful sweep he drives the blade clean through 
the neck of the dreamer. 

The blood spurts up, and the head rolls back 
on the sand. 


















































» 



' 







TWO FUNERALS 


FROM THE ITALIAN OF 

Enrico Castelnuovo 







. 












































' 












































. 































































TWO FUNERALS 


I HAD been two days in Milan attending to 
1 a matter of business, and was preparing to 
leave by the evening train when a telegram from 
Venice was handed to me. 

We beg you will kindly represent our Institution at the 
funeral of Director Baggi. Spend ioo liras on a wreath. 

The dispatch was signed by an intimate friend 
of mine—the president of the “ Banca Adriatica”— 
and had evidently been sent in the name of the 
whole board of directors. I was in close relation 
with the bank, and happened to know that some 
years previous the assistance of Director Baggi 
had been of great value to it, and therefore I did 
not like to give a refusal, in spite of the fact that I 
had never even seen the dead man. I ordered the 
wreath; bought a silk hat and black gloves, and 
the following morning at nine o’clock, precisely, 
presented myself at the “Via Brera N. 48,” where 
the director had a handsome apartment on the 
first floor. 

A gorgeous hearse standing before the door had 
attracted a crowd of passers-by whom two gen- 


221 



222 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


darmes were vainly endeavoring to disperse, and 
several societies with their banners were formed 
in line against the wall. The ordinary mortals 
were congregated about the entrance and in the 
court, while persons of importance had been in¬ 
vited to go upstairs. 

Two young men in the deepest of mourning, 
nephews of the deceased with a prospect of in¬ 
heritance, one fat and the other lean, did the 
honors of the house. They presented themselves 
to me, thanked both the bank and myself effu¬ 
sively for the demonstration of sympathy shown 
to the dead man, and begged me to accompany 
the coffin to the cemetery, and hold one of the 
cords of the pall. I stammered conventional 
phrases of condolence, accompanied by the usual 
inquiries as to the nature and length of the illness, 
etc. 

“Ah!” responded the fat nephew, with a sigh, 
“my poor uncle took the influenza in January, 
and never really recovered from the attack, 
although he continued to attend to his business. 
At the end of March the physicians diagnosed 
his sickness as ‘angina pectoris,’ and in three 
weeks-” 

“ Scarcely seventy years old,” added a bystander, 
wiping the perspiration from his bald head. 

“And a great loss to the ‘Bourse,’” remarked 
another. 

“A keen insight; a spirit of initiative,” said a 
third. 

The nephews, now summoned by the funeral 
ushers, went into the adjoining room in which 
were gathering by degrees all the great lights of 



TWO FUNERALS 


223 


Milanese high finance. The air was saturated 
with the odor of millions, and I heard low whis¬ 
pers of the fluctuations of the market; of bills of 
exchange; of the political policy of the Minister 
of Finance, and of the “Golden Calf” generally. 

Nothing whatever was said of the dead man, so 
what I had heard concerning him must have been 
true—that he was without family or intimate 
friends. In his youth he had given himself over 
to pleasures, and in maturity to speculations. He 
was observant of conventionalities; most strict in 
meeting obligations; but in all things the very 
essence of selfishness. 

I heard a murmur of prayers in the corridor, 
saw the glimmer of candles through the open 
door, and then all the people who had been 
squeezed into the main room arose and began to 
descend the stairs, evidently greatly relieved to 
find themselves again in the open air. 

The fat nephew who had treated me beyond 
my deserts accompanied me to the hearse, an 
attendant assigned me my place to the right of the 
coffin, and after some moments, necessary to com¬ 
plete all arrangements, the funeral procession be¬ 
gan to move, preceded by the municipal band 
playing the “March of Don Sebastiano,” and ac¬ 
companied by two rows of employees carrying 
lighted torches. 

There were ten of us holding the cords of the 
pall. I knew neither of the four who were on my 
side, nor the five who were opposite. I did not 
know the deceased and had no acquaintance with 
any one of those who formed the long procession. 
It was in truth long, much longer than I had 



224 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


imagined it would be, and the windows of the 
houses along the route were filled with the curious. 

The public ceremonies took place in the “Pro- 
positurale di San Marco,” after which the proces¬ 
sion, greatly diminished, departed for the cemetery. 

In passing the Corso Garibaldi we saw in front 
of the church of San Simpliciano another funeral, 
which was just beginning to move, but which 
stopped short with the deference due to a funeral 
of the first class from one of the third. There was 
one carriage and a shabby hearse drawn by a 
single abject-looking horse, whose driver seemed 
in the present instance ashamed of piloting to the 
cemetery such a poorly equipped corpse. On the 
coffin was one diminutive wreath of fresh flowers, 
a miserable opposite to the ostentation of wreaths 
which covered the illustrious bier. 

An employee of the “Banca Nazionale” who 
was walking by my side turned to a companion 
and said, “There goes poor Bertizzoni.” 

I was struck by the name Bertizzoni, but was 
not able for a moment to connect it. 

“Bertizonni? Did he belong to Milan?” I 
asked. 

“I don’t think he was born in Milan, but he has 
been here for a number of years. Now that it 
occurs to me, I believe he came from Venice. 
The Signore knows him?” 

Instead of answering, I asked another question. 

“Was he an old man?” 

“About fifty.” 

“And his first name?” 

“It was an unusual name, Licurgo.” 

“Licurgo?” 



TWO FUNERALS 


225 


“Yes.” 

“What did he do for a living?’’ 

“He was employed by the firm Gondrand.” 

“The shipping house?” 

“Precisely.” 

“Did he leave a family?” 

“A widow and son, a bright lad who has a po¬ 
sition with the “ Cooperativa.” 

Although the conversation was carried on in a 
low tone, it did not fail to attract the attention of 
those in the neighborhood, and a gentleman, tall 
and portly, who must have been a person of con¬ 
sequence, and who held the cord just in front of 
me, glanced several times at the bank employee 
as if to admonish him to keep silent. I immedi¬ 
ately realized the impropriety of the conversation 
at this time and place, and asked do more ques¬ 
tions. 

As for myself, I had no further doubt of the 
identity of this man, since such a coincidence of 
names, and of a name so out of the common, was 
improbable. 

Licurgo Bertizzoni had been an old-time friend 
and schoolmate of mine, and our friendship had 
continued for some time after our school days. 
He was the son of a professor who had a passion 
for Greek names, even to the extent of calling his 
two daughters Cassandra and Aspasia, and he 
belonged to a family which, from necessity, com¬ 
bined dinner and supper, and had to resort to 
every expedient to make both ends meet, but who 
were, nevertheless, light-hearted and hospitable 
people. 

I remember well a love affair with his sister 
15 



226 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Cassandra, which ended ingloriously for me be¬ 
cause, in order to avoid marrying an aged man 
with money, she went to Padua and entered a 
convent. 

After that I had no news of Licurgo for a num¬ 
ber of years. We have so many new interests, new 
affections and new burdens in life, and new scenes 
day by day present themselves so effectively, that 
the old ones are thrown into the background, so 
that, as time went on, the image of Licurgo Ber- 
tizzoni was almost effaced from my mind. 

I now recalled him as of more than ordinary 
talent, without application or stability of charac¬ 
ter, but in the hour of need ever ready to lend 
assistance to a friend; and during the troubled 
times which Italy experienced, I heard that he 
showed a willingness to give his life for his coun¬ 
try by fighting against her enemies; yet he evi¬ 
dently sought neither notoriety nor glory, as his 
name never came to my notice. 

But now the friendship of our youth which, 
little by little, had been obscured by the shadow 
which had settled down upon the recollections of 
the past, was suddenly recalled by the mention in 
a tone of pity of the name of my erstwhile school¬ 
mate, and I realized that, at a distance of only 
perhaps a hundred yards away, he was making 
his last journey hidden from the eyes of men, 
while I, an accidental actor in a social comedy, 
was rendering empty honors to a man whom I 
had never even known by sight. 

Oh, the pathos of the thing! He had been in 
Milan for a number of years, and I, in the mean 
time, had made many visits to the city, without it 



TWO FUNERALS 


227 


ever occurring to me to inquire if Bertizzoni were 
here, or without his having any knowledge of my 
presence. We may have touched shoulders on the 
street and passed without a word or look. It 
seemed to me now that he had lived in some 
remote time, although I saw again distinctly the 
miserable house at San Simeone in which his 
family dwelt, its dilapidated exterior, and its door 
off the hinges. I saw his father, tranquil in the 
midst of his debts; his mother bustling and 
talkative; his sister Cassandra with her black eyes 
and coquettish air, which did not presage her 
future retirement to a convent; and most distinctly 
of all I saw Licurgo himself, tall and fine-looking 
and debonair, and not a little vain of his success 
with the fair sex. 

Since then a third of a century had gone by, 
and who knows by what a road of grief and misery 
he had at last arrived at the gate through which all 
must finally disappear. 

Full of such thoughts, I had continued to walk 
beside the funeral car of Director Baggi, and, 
without realizing it, had arrived at the cemetery. 
The hearse stopped, a profound silence ensued, 
a man with spectacles, whom I knew to be one of 
the City Council, took from his pocket a manu¬ 
script, and read in a monotone a brief eulogy; a 
second mumbled some words in the name of the 
Chamber of Commerce, and a third and fourth 
added a few disjointed phrases; but my own 
thoughts wandered abstractedly to the humble 
funeral procession of poor Bertizzoni, which was 
slowly making its way to the opposite side of the 
Campo-Santo, and tears started from my eyes 



228 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


and choked me. Of all those who had accom¬ 
panied the remains of Director Baggi to the grave, 
I was the only one who wept, and the two nephews 
of the deceased felt called upon to press their 
handkerchiefs to their eyes, and coming over 
toward me, they grasped me by the hand. 

“Thanks, thanks, Signor, for all your atten¬ 
tions, and for the attentions of the bank as well.” 

The crowd dispersed; only the relatives re¬ 
mained to await the depositing of the coffin in the 
family vault. Someone offered to convey me back 
to the city in a carriage, but I preferred to go on 
foot. I wanted to be alone. 

As I was walking back along one of the paths 
a cab, also returning, passed near me, and I saw 
through the window a young man dressed in 
mourning, handsome and vigorous looking, but 
with pale and mournful countenance. He was the 
exact likeness of Licurgo Bertizzoni at eighteen 
years of age, and after my first surprise I realized 
that it must be his son. 

For an instant I was on the point of calling, but 
for what reason ? I could only say that a third of 
a century ago his father had been my intimate 
friend, and that in the mean time I had almost 
entirely forgotten him. 



REVENGE 


FROM THE FRENCH OF 


Georges de Lys 































































































REVENGE 


CCARCELY had Roch recovered from the ec- 
^ stasy of a long kiss, given full upon the lips of 
the young wife, and had raised himself from the 
arm of the chair in whose soft cushions Gisela 
was nestled, when he perceived the entrance of 
her husband. 

A quick, startled glance sought the face of his 
betrayed friend, Hector Morlaines, to read the 
expression. Had he seen ? 

The latter threw himself down in an easy-chair 
in front of the cheerful fire and warmed the soles 
of his feet, watching with apparent interest the 
steam which arose from his wet shoes; then he 
leaned back and yawned, rubbing his hands and 
showing in his every action his appreciation of 
the warmth and comfort. 

Roch breathed freely again. “He has seen 
nothing,” he said to himself. “No, it is certain 
he has seen nothing.” A sufficient proof of this 
was the manner in which Hector completely gave 
himself up to the enjoyment of the fire, carelessly 
leaning back, with his large muscular hands rest¬ 
ing on his knees. 


231 



232 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Involuntarily Roch made comparison between 
his own thin, weakly form and the powerful 
build of this sandy-haired giant, which the re¬ 
flection of the mirror exaggerated. The result 
was not in his own favor, but his vanity was flat¬ 
tered by his preponderance of elegance, which 
evidently turned the scale for him with woman, 
since Gisela preferred him to her husband. A 
supercilious smile played about his mouth. 

Roch de Stalys had left Paris on account of his 
dissipated life, which had attacked his purse as 
well as his health. He was forced to spare both, 
and had been living for some months on his 
estate, in an unfrequented part of the country. 
Here his only neighbor was a boyhood’s friend, 
Hector Morlaines, whose love of farming and 
other agrarian pursuits had held him chained to 
the soil. 

Morlaines was married. With genuine pleas¬ 
ure he placed his home at the disposal of his old- 
time school friend, who had, as noted, taken ad¬ 
vantage of the hospitality in such a dastardly 
manner. Gisela was, as a matter of fact, the 
only woman in the neighborhood who suited his 
taste; a reason which sufficed to quiet his con¬ 
science. 

Stalys made preparations to take his leave. 
Hector arose at the same time and remarked, “It 
is such a beautiful night that I will accompany 
you a part of the way, and take the opportunity 
to smoke a pipe.” 

“Fie! You wicked man,” jokingly pouted 
Gisela, “are you going to leave your poor little 
wife all alone?” Then she held up her forehead 



REVENGE 


233 


to be kissed, which her husband touched only 
lightly. 

High arched the firmament above them, with 
its dark nocturnal blue, sown with countless glis¬ 
tening stars. The hard, frozen ground echoed 
their footsteps. Wrapped in a fur coat, from the 
turned-up collar of which his lighted pipe pro¬ 
truded, Hector strode rapidly and in silence, so 
that Stalys was forced to quicken his pace in order 
to keep up with him. He hesitated to ask his 
companion to moderate his gait, and could find 
no words to break the oppressive silence. 

Although he was positive that Hector had not 
the slightest suspicion, yet Stalys experienced a 
peculiar anxiety, an almost superstitious dread, 
as if hypnotized by this man, this betrayed friend, 
here in the lonely, uncanny stillness of the night. 

The plain was stretched out before them, bare, 
with only here and there a slight rising of the 
ground. Its uniform profile was broken occa¬ 
sionally by trees reaching up toward heaven, 
while their knotted and twisted branches seemed 
to form bony fists. 

The railway track divided the plain with its 
narrow band, the metal rails stretched far away, 
while on their polished surface the brightness of 
the stars was reflected. Along the narrow foot¬ 
path past the row of motionless telegraph poles, 
whose wires were clearly defined against the 
dark, wintry blue of the sky, the two men strode. 
On all sides stretched the fields desolate and for¬ 
saken, waiting to bury themselves under a mantle 
of snow. Far away against the horizon flickered 
the red light of the signal lantern. 



234 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Suddenly Morlaines halted, raised high both his 
hands, and let them fall heavily on the shoulders 
of Stalys, who swayed and fell under the force of 
the shock. Morlaines then knelt upon him, 
pressed his face against the ground to stifle any 
cry, gagged and bound him. He dragged him 
up the embankment on to the track, and placed 
him with his neck on one of the rails, whose icy 
coldness seemed to cut like the blade of a knife. 

Now the betrayed husband raised himself 
slowly, drew out his watch, consulted it by the 
dim light of his pipe, and said: “The express is 
due here in fifty-two minutes.” 

Stunned by the sudden attack, half stifled by 
Morlaines’ grasp, and overcome by terror, Roch 
had not attempted to utter a cry, as his helpless¬ 
ness had conquered his will-power. The icy con¬ 
tact with the rails, however, awoke him from his 
lethargy, but without making him fully under¬ 
stand his position. The words of Hector first 
caused him to realize the horror of the situation; 
he felt his flesh creep and his hair stand on 
end. 

The fear of death gave him new strength. 
With a sudden effort, he wrenched his neck from 
the rail, as if from under the knife of the guillo¬ 
tine, and, drawing himself together, rolled down 
the embankment. But the avenger seized him 
again and again dragged him up to the track, 
and this time bound the ends of the gag around 
the rails. 

“Now try to move!” 

Despair overcame the victim. He was hope¬ 
lessly lost. From beneath his eyelids, closed to 



REVENGE 


2 35 


avoid the wild, exultant glare of his executioner, 
there ran scalding tears. In the helplessness of 
his position and through the fear of death, Stalys 
wept. 

His adversary looked on in scorn. “You are 
weeping, Roch?” 

Oh, this witness who triumphed in his tears! 
He tried to control them, but resistlessly they 
rolled drop by drop down his cheeks, and bathed 
the prisoner with their bitterness. Roch now 
ceased to struggle, convinced of the hopelessness 
of every effort. 

One thought pervaded his brain—the thought 
of this sure death without struggle, without de¬ 
fence, without revenge, under the fearful weight 
of the locomotive, his head crushed, ground by 
the revolving wheels into a gory mass. Death 
itself was nothing to this martyrdom. And the 
waiting, this refinement of revenge, which forced 
him to count the minutes and seconds. This 
agony before the other one, the stronger, whose 
triumph it was, and whose exultation drove him 
to madness! To die! Yes, death at once! Why 
could the train not hasten and deliver him from 
this horrible situation. Fifty-two minutes! It 
seemed as if he had already lain there an hour. 

“Forty-two minutes more, Roch.” 

These words burned into Stalys’ brain. He 
tried to speak; the attempt was only a rattle in 
his throat; the weight of woe was too stupendous. 
Oh, the inexorable slowness of time! He tried 
not to think, not to torment himself in this help¬ 
lessness, but his rebellious mind, obeying the re¬ 
volting flesh, brought into the foreground his 



236 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


despair and presented incessantly the frightful 
picture of his mangled head. 

In addition, physical pain tortured him. The 
cold of the frozen earth penetrated his body and 
congealed the marrow in his bones.^ The blood 
which throbbed in his ears and hammered at his 
temples flowed back to the heart in response to 
its rapid beats. 

The tears which furrowed his cheeks ate into 
the skin, sharp as drops of vitriol; the now glassy 
eyes were as if pierced by needles; a screw 
seemed to be entering his skull, and the nape of 
his neck to be pinched with red-hot tongs. 

Suddenly, in his misery, he experienced a quick 
sensation of joy; his ear, pressed against the 
ground, distinguished a faint noise, which became 
more and more distinct; the rhythm of even, 
approaching footsteps. It was the station guard 
making his rounds. He was saved! 

The steps came nearer. Stalys almost lost his 
senses in the ecstasy of hope. He suffered no 
more; he almost laughed at his fears. Yes; he 
knew well it was not yet his time to die. Nearer 
and nearer they came, so near that Morlaines 
must surely hear them. Ha! his revenge was 
slipping away, and once freed Roch would not 
forget to pay him in his own coin. His heart 
swelled with hatred and joy. The steps ceased; 
then they resounded anew; then it seemed to 
the Condemned man that they became less dis¬ 
tinct—in fact, weaker, more and more remote. 
But still he had hope. Perhaps the guard had 
something to arrange at a distance from the track 
and would afterward return. 



REVENGE 


237 


Roch tried to cry out, but his voice was stifled 
by the gag. He heard the steps grow fainter and 
fainter. His life ebbed away with each sound. 
He made a last, a desperate effort to raise him¬ 
self, and tried to strike the ground with his heels, 
but the cold and the fetters kept his limbs para¬ 
lyzed. The steps died away. 

“Roch, a quarter of an hour more.” 

.With rage he buried his teeth deep into his lips. 
The abyss into which, from the summit of his 
hope, he had been hurled, was indeed too deep. 
In his fury there arose a different anger, a new 
hate, the hate of Gisela, this insignificant doll, 
this snare by which he allowed himself to be 
taken like a dolt. His life lost for a woman. 
His! Roch de Stalys! And for such a woman! 
A woman not even out of the ordinary, and a 
woman he did not even love. But this could not 
be possible. It was too great a stupidity, too 
great a madness. This miserable creature! 
How he would like to have had her by him on the 
rails, trembling with fear of death, as she had 
trembled with delight in his arms. 

Oh, to be able to enjoy her death’s struggle! 
Yes! First to enjoy it and then to hiss in her face. 
And then to have to think that after his own 
death, this man, his executioner, this weakling in 
spite of his strength, might perhaps forgive his 
wife, instead of meting out to her a like punish¬ 
ment. At any rate, her life would be spared. 
Oh! To live! To live! Only that—to live. 

“Roch, ten minutes more.” 

And this man whose voice mocked his agony, 
this coward had been his friend, had grasped his 



2 3 8 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


hand, had lied to him in order to carry out more 
surely his treacherous plan. Roch was mad with 
rage at the thought of the revolver which he could 
feel useless in his pocket. How blind and trust¬ 
ful he had been to have allowed himself to be 
outwitted by this husband. Morlaines, on the 
other hand, how crafty! But had he no blood in 
his veins to be able to feign indifference so long, 
instead of driving out the guilty woman, and chal¬ 
lenging him to a duel. 

Ah! A duel between them. Surely he would 
not have missed. He saw himself at the meeting 
place taking deliberate aim, shooting him straight 
in the body—the ball tearing its way through the 
entrails. He saw foam on his lips. He would 
have let him bleed to death, there, this dog, this 
miserable carrion. 

The fruitlessness of his rage only augmented 
his torments. He longed for the relief of death, 
closed his eyes and waited. 

A warm breath touched his cheek. Hector, 
sure of the helplessness of his victim, bent over 
him and loosened the ends of the gag from the 
bolt of the rail; then with face lowered, he mocked 
the spoiler of his honor. 

“ Save yourself, Roch; you have only three min¬ 
utes. Save yourself! ’ ’ 

In the distance could be heard a low, dull mur¬ 
mur, and then came an almost imperceptible 
vibration of the rails. The rumbling, first soft, 
like the hum of a single bee, arose to the buzz of 
an entire swarm, and then swelled to the wild 
roar of an angry sea. The ground trembled 
from the thunder of the onrushing train. 



REVENGE 


239 


The shriek of the whistle broke sharply upon 
the ear, and far down the track glistened two 
points of light. Gradually they grew larger and 
larger until they glowed like the eyes of a beast of 
prey. An intermittent hammering shook the rails. 
The express was racing along with its burden. 

With a painful turning of the head, the only 
motion in which the muscles obeyed his will, 
Stalys stared at the approach of those devouring 
eyes. That was his end. But this terrible end 
he now rebelled against with all the force of his 
being. Oh, for one more hour of death’s agony— 
only not to die yet, to suffer, but to live! Noth¬ 
ing, nothing could stop the fiery monster! He 
already felt the tearing asunder of the muscles of 
his neck. He tried to turn away his face so as at 
least not to see, but the ferocious glare of the 
murderous machine fascinated him, and exerted 
a magnetic power to almost draw his eyes out of 
their sockets. 

There forced its way through the gag a hoarse 
rattle, a throttled roar, laughter, moaning, wild 
and frenzied. 

“The train was upon him.” 

The shining steel of the wheels heated the rails, 
in golden tears the ashes ran from the pan. One 
turn more, and then the end. 

Roch felt as if the locomotive had glided up to 
his face and then stopped; so long seemed the 
last second. His features were reflected in the 
polished steel as in a mirror. To his disordered 
brain it seemed he had been there a lifetime. 
Years had gone by, for he saw himself an old man 
with snow-white hair. 



240 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Through the deafening noise of the onrushing 
train there rang upon the ears of the engineer 
and his assistant a blood-curdling cry which 
froze the marrow in their bones. At the same in¬ 
stant they discerned an indistinct, shadowy group 
by the side of the track, then all disappeared be¬ 
hind them in the night. 

The express had passed. Morlaines released 
Stalys. At the last moment he had dragged him 
from the rails. 

Was it pity, or was it the refinement of cruelty? 

As soon as Stalys found himself free, he fled, 
clutching his neck with both hands, and con¬ 
tinued to fill the still night with the wild, frenzied 
cry, ‘ ‘ My head! My head! ’ ’ 



DORA NANI 


FROM THE FRENCH OF 


Robert Schaffer 





. 



t 
























































































DORA NANI 


DALE and careworn, in a costume of deep 
* mourning, and with prayer-book in hand, 
Madame Dolland, widow, was following out a 
daily custom by directing her footsteps toward her 
favorite chapel, when at the comer of the street 
a conspicuous placard attracted her attention. 

In the town of Z-, the largest of the district 

and a city of the third class, distractions were rare 
and everything an event. Even the walls were 
stupid, and a colored poster which by chance en¬ 
livened their dulness was an object of comment; 
so that Madame Dolland, widow, drew near to 
examine it. 

She gave a start and grew dizzy; the prayer- 
book slipped from her trembling hands. With 
difficulty she recovered it and, gaining her com¬ 
posure, took courage to look again. Yes, she had 
read it aright— Dora Nani. 

It was she; Dora Nani, the well-known trage¬ 
dienne, this conspicuous woman with neck and 
shoulders bare and covered with jewels; with 
figure immodestly draped in flaring red. Yes, it 
243 



244 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


was her likeness which was depicted on the 
poster. 

“The wretched, wretched creature,” muttered 
Madame Dolland, as she finally turned away 
and, instead of continuing in the direction of the 
chapel, went back to her own home in tears. 

Her only son had killed himself on account of 
this actress, and here in the small town where his 
mother had secluded herself they were going to 
applaud the very woman‘who had broken her 
heart. 

Why, at that moment when she was absorbed 
in pious thoughts, was she forced to raise her eyes 
to the fatal poster! Otherwise she would not have 
known and would have continued along in her 
sad, lonely and resigned mode of existence, pray¬ 
ing for the salvation of him who had taken his 
own life; while now—the past was being revived 
with its agonies, its revolts and its despair, and 
the public, ignorant of it all, were going to applaud 
the criminal, this Dora Nani, and would they care 
even if they knew that the heartbroken mother 
was weeping bitter tears on her account ? 

Her son, her only son, how she had loved him, 
and how anxious she had been; he was so deli¬ 
cate, so impressionable, and so prone to look on 
the bright side of everything. 

Widowed early, she had often deprived herself 
of the necessities of life in order to assure him an 
education, and while she feared the trend of his 
adventurous spirit, she was proud of his rapid 
progress, of the admiration called forth by his 
good looks, and of the general recognition of his 
intelligence. Then came the departure for Paris. 



DORA NANI 


245 


With what supplicating words and gestures had 
she given him her blessing at the moment of leave- 
taking, and alas! how soon had he been led 
astray! 

Instead of devoting his time to serious studies, 
he had given himself up to the frivolities of liter¬ 
ature, had frequented theatres which were to be 
condemned, had made the acquaintance of crea¬ 
tures of perdition and linked himself with them. 
To the sad complaints of his mother, he replied 
with phrases which distressed her; he spoke of 
the shortness of life and the uncertainty of what 
followed, of the enthusiasm which beauty pro¬ 
voked, and affirmed that beauty alone deserved 
to be worshipped. 

He was in no sympathy with what was consid¬ 
ered the true life. Why give one’s self up to 
austerity and the useless round of duties instead 
of admiring the light which shone; instead of 
draining the joys which were offered; instead of 
intoxicating one’s self with pleasures supplied by 
nature’s prodigal hand. So well had he followed 
out his theories that, enslaved by vice, he had 
compromised his honor, and, in order to meet the 
demands of Dora Nani, had stolen, and had finally 
sought in death an escape from disgrace. But 
what sort of a woman could this Dora Nani be to 
exert such power of fascination over a young man 
as to make him sacrifice everything, even his 
morality, his honesty and his life. 

Madame Dolland asked herself this question 
as the picture she had just seen continued to pre¬ 
sent itself before her eyes. In spite of her afflic¬ 
tion it cast a spell over her. It seemed to become 



246 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


alive, to lean toward her and whisper in her ear. 
Madame Dolland made a gesture as if to ward it 
off, but behind her lowered lids she saw the pic¬ 
ture even more distinct. It was still tempting her; 
it made signs; it murmured, “You have only to 
go to the theatre; you will see, know and judge 
for yourself.” A suggestion of the evil one which 
must be resisted. The temptation, however, be¬ 
came more powerful, and the resistance of Ma¬ 
dame Dolland weaker, and the conflict lasted dur¬ 
ing the whole almost endless day. 

That evening the widow who had thought it 
necessary to make some improvements in her 
toilet, some old lace added at the neck and wrists, 
appeared with the crowd at the ticket window. 
The price of a seat seemed exorbitant, and she paid 
it with a twinge of conscience that the money had 
not gone into the poor box, but, promising herself 
to go to confession in the morning, she turned 
with hesitation toward the interior of the theatre. 

The splendor of the place impressed her; 
everything was new to her. On principle'as much 
as from necessity, Madame Dolland had never 
entered a theatre. She saluted ceremoniously 
the woman who showed her to the seat, and 
apologized for disturbing her neighbors. Shyly 
she studied 'the boxes, the crystal chandeliers and 
the mystery of the lowered curtain. The music 
fascinated her, but at the same time irritated her 
nerves. Although her heart beat rapidly, she did 
not experience the sensation of grief which she 
had dreaded, but rather a sort of feverish curi¬ 
osity for which she reproached herself. “ My son, 
my son, what would he say?” she thought, and 



DORA NANI 


247 


furtively, in order to conciliate heaven, she began 
to tell her beads. 

The three raps sounded, the curtain rose, and 
at the same time a gust of cold air rushed out into 
the auditorium. Madame Dolland shivered. 

A scene of fairyland was revealed. A lake 
tinted by the rays of the setting sun with the col¬ 
onnade of a marble palace extended along its 
border. On the steps appeared the princess; the 
applause was deafening. Awaiting silence, Dora 
Nani remained in an attitude of modesty as if a 
stranger to the ovation of which she was the re¬ 
cipient. To all appearance she was lost in a 
trance, and there was a far-away look in her eyes 
as she gazed into space. Her beautiful bare arms 
emerged from her dress of pure white, and her 
whole figure was lighted up by the flickering rays 
of the dying sunlight. Madame Dolland had 
never imagined anything to equal it. The scene 
appeared to her more beautiful than the church 
decorated for Easter-tide. Dora Nani in her halo 
of blonde tresses, in her garb of innocence, which 
the blood-red sun seemed to smirch, was a saintly 
picture calculated to bring tears to the eyes. 

Madame Dolland was annoyed at the com¬ 
parison and endeavored to resist the fascination 
which had taken possession of her. 

Then Dora Nani began to speak. The tone of 
her voice was low and serious; it caressed; it 
moved; it enchanted. Madame Dolland was 
subjugated. 

The actress advanced. The grace of her 
movements made her appear more beautiful than 
in repose. Madame Dolland did not take her 



248 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


eyes away from her. She paid scant attention to 
the coming and going of the other personages or 
to the dialogue. All her interest in the piece was 
concentrated upon Dora Nani and she admired 
her. At the fall of the curtain, Madame Dolland 
applauded. During the entr'acte she did not stir 
from her place. She was as if in a dream, and 
experienced an indescribable sensation of com¬ 
bined joy and bitterness. She seemed to be 
learning only now what life really meant. 

“Her son had known Dora Nani,” and she 
was conscious of a feeling of pride mingled with 
grief. 

During the following acts, and in proportion as 
the plot was unfolded, she was taken more and 
more by the artiste. She saw her with the eyes of 
her son; she thought she heard him say “Beauty 
alone merits our worship,” and, shaken in all her 
beliefs of yesterday, she approved of the senti¬ 
ment. So when Dora Nani at the end of the play 
marvellously expired in the presence of the audi¬ 
ence, Madame Dolland sobbed: 

“How she must have suffered.” 

She thought: “No doubt when she expires like 
this she recalls him who loved her enough to die 
for her beauty, and she probably makes it a sort 
of self-inflicted chastisement to pass through these 
frequent pangs of agony.” 

In her simple soul Madame Dolland believed 
this, and one cannot be blamed for smiling. 
Madame Dolland, however, was ignorant that 
life is a comedy and that tragedy only appears as 
a seasoning. 



DORA NANI 


249 


The emotions of the evening were too strong to 
allow the poor woman to sleep. She did not even 
lie down, but in the narrowness of her bedcham¬ 
ber sought to reconcile her present impressions 
with her former scruples. 

She undertook to write to Dora Nani, but what 
to say and what not to say! She made copies of 
letters which she filled with erasures; her thoughts 
were contradictory. Dora Nani so lovely—her 

son—the worship of beauty—religion—duty- 

Madame Dolland lost herself in a world of re¬ 
flections in proportion as her sensations grew less. 
At daybreak she became calm, and writing on her 
visiting card these words, “A mother who forgives 
you,” she put it in an envelope, addressed it, and, 
going out, dropped it into the nearest letter box. 

Then, as on the previous day, she directed her 
steps toward the church, but on passing the poster 
did not even glance at it. She knelt before the 
altar and prayed fervently for herself, her son, 
and for Dora Nani. 










































































‘DER KLINGELJUNGE” 

{THE DELIVERY BOY) 

FROM THE GERMAN OF 

Clara Viebig 
















































































































“ DER KLINGELJUNGE” 

(The Delivery Boy) 


'THE court was narrow and gloomy. Scarcely 
a bit of sky looked in, and even that was 
gray with the smoke of the chimneys. The pave¬ 
ment was always wet; the irregular stones exuded 
a sticky, mouldy dampness, never dried by the 
sun. Only in summer and at mid-day did the 
sunlight find its way down the dark wall of one of 
the towering wings of the building. 

In the basement it was always half night. The 
greatest care was necessary in groping down the 
five slippery steps not to knock one’s nose, and it 
was only by peering sharply into the gloom that 
one could read on a piece of cardboard nailed 
against a small door at the end of the stairs, 
“Stibiker, Shoemaker.” 

It was early afternoon; the work-people had 
finished their mid-day meal, and out of the win¬ 
dows of both extensions came the rattling of 
crockery and the squalling and squabbling of 
children, while the smell of turnips, garlic, 
sausage, and fried onions filled the air. 



254 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Suddenly a shrill female voice began in a high 
key a well-worn popular song. It was something 
about summer and love and blessedness. The 
woman fairly yelled. 

“Stop your noise, you screech-owl! Suppose 
every one should make such a racket!” called a 
voice across the court, as a window was slammed 
down. The song stopped short; everything was 
still. 

Part way down the high side wall the sunbeams 
played; they would advance a little and then draw 
back shyly. Outside on the street it was summer, 
and the trees were in full foliage, but without a 
vestige of anything really green; an exhausted 
and stifling atmosphere made one sweat, and at 
the same time sent cold chills down one’s back. 

The work-people in the court had begun their 
noonday nap; one, half-past one, two o’clock, all 
was quiet. Suddenly a window opened and some¬ 
thing was thrown to the pavement. A bone! 
There it lay; the shadows played about it; and two 
glistening eyes peering out of the tumble-down 
dog-house in the darkest corner of the yard grew 
larger and larger with greed. Noiselessly putting 
one paw in front of the other the animal crept out 
of his hut and stretching his long body to the 
fullest extent, almost wriggled over the stones, his 
neck elongated, his - tongue extended—but in 
vain; the chain was too short; the bone was not 
to be reached. With a pitiful whine the dog gave 
up the attempt and lay down in front of his house 
with his rough head on his paws and his lids half 
closed, but keeping at the same time a blinking 
watch on all sides. 



255 


“der klingeljunge” 


The flies buzzed around his shaggy coat and 
settled on the thick gluey moisture which oozed 
out from the corners of his eyes. With a low 
growl he half raised himself and brushed his tail 
against his lean sides. The bone, the bone! To 
think of it lying there on the pavement. The 
flies swarmed over and upon it, while a woeful 
light shone in the expressive eyes of the dog. One 
last look, and then he turned to sniff his water- 
bowl—the old broken thing was empty—not even 
water. With tongue out, the dog lay down again; 
one more sniff fo right and left, and then he 
seemed to sleep. 

Listen! The shutting of a door; light footsteps 
on the pavement. With a low whine of pleasure 
the dog sprang up, and two arms were thrown 
about his neck as a childish figure sank down near 
him on the ground. 

“ Pluto! Pluto! you good old dog.” It was cer¬ 
tainly a joyful meeting. The dog made an awk¬ 
ward spring, struck his clumsy head against the 
boy’s narrow chest and licked his hands and face. 
A certain pleasure in which sadness and weariness 
were mingled lighted up the boy’s features. 

“ What, Pluto, my doggy, no water ? ” The boy 
sprung up from his knees and filled the half- 
broken earthen cup at the pump, and as if he had 
guessed the dog’s thoughts he brought with him 
the bone and watched contemplatively while the 
sharp teeth of the animal crunched it. Then with 
a woe-begone smile he showed his empty hands. 
“No more, Pluto; not a scrap more; but wait a 
little, and have patience, and when I get rich you 
will be surprised what treats you will have. You 



256 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


shall have that big sausage which hangs outside the 
butcher’s window, you may depend upon that.” 

Hans’ promise was well meant, but it was an¬ 
other matter to get the money to buy the tempting 
morsel across the way. For the present, all he had 
for his friend was each morning and evening the 
half of his dry crust, with now and again a meat¬ 
less bone, together with all the affection of which 
his young heart was capable. 

Hans Stibiker was delivery boy for the large 
dairy company in the upper part of the town. 
The moon was often still shining when the lad left 
for his daily work and dragged his poor, lean little 
body through the empty streets. In winter he was 
chilled to the bone in spite of his thick gloves and 
the woolen muffler over his ears, and in summer 
he crept home in the burning midday heat, worn 
out. He was small for his years—none would 
have taken him to be twelve—with dull eyes, 
pinched nose, bloodless ears, a low forehead 
already showing deep lines, and a back with a 
tendency to curve. 

As he gave the dog one last loving pat, and 
shuffled with his worn-out shoes across the uneven 
flags to the basement, all his animation seemed to 
vanish. In passing the side door he stopped, 
pulled his cap back off his dead, colorless hair, and 
gave an indifferent glance up toward the little bit 
of sky; but only from habit, for what difference did 
it make whether it rained or whether the sun were 
shining. -Slowly he crept down the basement 
stairs toward the door on which was the cardboard 
sign “Stibiker, Shoemaker.” 

From within came the sound of semi-maudlin 



“der klingeljunge” 257 


singing, then it stopped and some one yawned 
loudly. The face of the boy took on an expression 
of fear—the father was home. Hans hesitated a mo¬ 
ment and then cautiously pressed down the latch. 

“Well, sir. Isn’t it about time you turned up? 
Where have you been all the while, you loafer? 
But now you’re here you can go to the corner and 
have this bottle filled. Money? What do you 
mean ? What are you staring at ? You tell them 
I’ll pay to-morrow.” 

“They won’t give me anything without paying. 
Yesterday they almost threw the bottle at my 
head; I don’t dare go,” said the boy pitifully. 

“The hounds”—the lumbering fellow stretched 
out on the sofa with his legs hanging over the end, 
and his shirt open in front showing his hairy 
chest, half raised himself—“hounds; to refuse a 
respectable man a drink of gin simply because— 
well, you rascal, what are you standing there star¬ 
ing at me for ? Are you waiting for me to make 
you go? Hurry up, now; take the bottle—one, 
two, three-” 

“Stibiker!” From the stove in the corner the 
mother advanced, one child in her arms and an¬ 
other, hardly a year older, hanging on her skirt; 
she put herself between the boy and her husband. 
“Let him alone, Stibiker,” she besought; “let him 
first have a bite to eat, then he will have more 
courage. Won’t you, Hans? Then you’ll go for 
your father.” 

The boy lowered his head. “I don’t dare! 
They’ll hit me!” he murmured, “and if father is 
drunk he’ll hit me also. I can’t go; I can’t and 
I won’t.” 

17 



258 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


“Hush, for heaven’s sake!” The mother in 
fear put her hand over the child’s mouth and whis¬ 
pered, “Suppose your father hears you! Be a 
good boy and consent to go; you know if you don’t 
what trouble there’ll be: he will beat me as well 
as you.” 

“And if I go he’ll only beat me. That’s what 
you mean, is it ? No, mother, you are sure to get 
your share, too.” The boy looked at her with an 
air of precocious sadness. “He’ll either kill you 
first and then beat you, or beat you first and then 
kill you. You know how it always is.” 

The mother sighed; a shudder passed over her 
wasted body, and a pale, unhealthy color faintly 
lighted her hollow cheeks. 

The man on the sofa banged the table with his 
fist. “Well, are you going? What are you whis¬ 
pering about? Hold your tongue, and take the 
bottle and go! You can eat afterwards. Hurry 
up, now, and get along.” He put one of his heavy 
feet on the floor and stamped angrily. “Come, 
now, go- 7” he pretended to get up. 

The boy grabbed the bottle and slipped hur¬ 
riedly out of the door, followed by the jarring 
laughter of his father. 

Among the milk-boys there was great commo¬ 
tion: one of them had committed a theft. The 
news spread like a train of gunpowder. 

There he goes! In his blue blouse, with his 
green-bordered cap pulled down over his eyes, he 
was sneaking out of the office door. He had just 
received a severe reprimand. 

The other boys stood around in groups and 




259 


“der klingeljunge” 


watched him hurry away. Who would have 
thought it? Hans Stibiker, who was always so 
innocent, who never quarrelled, and always crept 
away in case of a fight! He had stolen a ten- 
pfennig piece, and done it in such a clumsy man¬ 
ner that the driver to whom he handed the money, 
received in the kitchen for the milk, had noticed it 
at once. How could he have been so stupid! 

It was so. Hans Stibiker was the thief. He 
hadn’t denied it. As pale as a ghost he had low¬ 
ered his head and simply let the driver box his ears, 
and when the latter reported him to the inspector 
he had again stood colorless with downcast eyes. 
Then they had searched his clothing. 

“What did you do with the money?” 

No answer. 

“ Why did you take it, boy ? Were you hungry 
or did you want it to spend foolishly?” 

Still no reply. 

“Stibiker, answer! Where is the money?” 

The heavy hand of the inspector was placed on 
the boy’s shoulder. 

“Don’t you know that stealing is a sin? And 
you have stolen! Shame.” 

The inspector pushed his spectacles back on his 
forehead and looked sharply at the offender from 
under his bushy eyebrows. 

“I ought to discharge you this instant. We 
have no place for thieves here. What! Have you 
nothing to say to that?” 

A tremor passed over the miserably thin body 
of the boy; he pitifully raised his hands and broke 
into convulsive sobs. 

“ Don’t discharge me, sir; don’t discharge me.” 



260 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


His teeth chattered and hot tears ran down his 
cheeks. 

“Don’t discharge me, sir; he will kill me. I’ll 
never do it again.” 

“What did you do with the money?” 

Hans stood again unmovable with knees tremb¬ 
ling and lips tightly pressed together. 

“He is evidently an obstinate lad,” said the 
inspector to one of the bystanders, as he shrugged 
his shoulders and added in harsh tones, “Stibiker, 
you can go home now. Tell your father to come 
here this afternoon, as I wish to speak to him. 
Stop your crying. That will do no good. Be off 
and go home.” 

Like a spectre the boy slunk through the streets. 
The sun’s rays were reflected on the asphalt with 
a fierce heat, but he did not notice it. Cold chills 
crept up and down his back. The nearer he ap¬ 
proached the paternal dwelling the slower became 
his footsteps, until they finally relapsed into a 
snail’s pace. He stopped at every shop-window, 
and finally leaned against the brass rail of the 
butcher shop. It was here! yesterday! The 
same as to-day he had leaned against the rail, and 
his greedy eyes had feasted upon the largest string 
of sausages which hung in the window. 

It was not for himself, in spite of the fact that 
the sight of them made his mouth water; it was for 
Pluto, who, plagued by flies, lay in the corner of the 
yard with tongue hanging out, hungry and thirsty 
with no one to feed him! His master, the rag- 
dealer, Lehman, whose cart he pulled day in and 
day out through the streets, was a miserly man 
who scarcely allowed himself, enough to eat, much 



26 i 


“der klingeljunge” 


less the dog. Hans Stibiker’s contributions were 
limited as well; the slice of bread he could spare 
from his own breakfast was only a mouthful for 
Pluto’s huge jaw. 

There was Lehman coming down the street now 
with his cart. Sacks stuffed full were piled one 
on top of the other, while the man sauntered a 
short distance behind. The dog could go no 
farther. It was rising ground; he hesitated a mo¬ 
ment and then came to a stop. 

“Go on, you lazy brute.” 

The dog tugged, strained his lean haunches 
almost to bursting, braced his hind legs, but all to 
no purpose—the cart would not budge. 

“Pull! you good-for-nothing beast.” 

The master gave the dog a kick in the ribs and 
uttered an oath. Pluto gathered together all his 
strength, gave one pull, his hind quarters nearly 
dragging on the ground. The cart rolled along 
a few steps ancf then stopped again. Panting 
and with palpitating sides the animal sank 
down. 

Beside himself with rage, the man raised his 
boot heel and brought it down heavily on the head 
of the animal. A low whine of pain followed and 
then—a cry answered. 

With lightning speed Hans Stibiker had sprung 
from the shop-window and thrown himself be¬ 
tween the dog and master. He tugged at the 
man’s coat with all the force of his small hands, 
crying, “ Don’t kick him; don’t for pity’s sake kick 
him! Stop hurting poor Pluto!” 

The hand of the rag-dealer gave the boy a sting¬ 
ing box on the ear. 



262 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


“You young rascal, mind your own business.” 
One more kick—the dog arose unsteadily and with 
a desperate effort slowly started the cart again on 
its way. With smarting eyes and a heavy heart 
the boy gazed after them and then went back again 
to the butcher’s window and stared fixedly at the 
sausage. It danced before his eyes, it beckoned, 
it nodded, it swayed back and forth. If Pluto, 
poor Pluto, only had that sa,usage! 

And to-day Hans Stibiker had stolen. The 
other boys pointed their fingers at him! The spar¬ 
rows on the roof piped “Thief, thief!” The 
inspector was going to tell his father! But in spite 
of all this a triumphant light shone in the tearful 
eyes of the boy. He looked around stealthily, and 
then put his finger into his mouth and pulled out 
from under his tongue a ten-pfennig piece. 
Tightly he held it in his hand, hurried into the 
shop, and came out a moment later with a small 
parcel in his blouse. Like one possessed he 
started on a run. He reached the court. It was 
wrapped in the stillness of noon; narrow and 
gloomy as usual, but to the boy it seemed bright. 
His pale face glowed with excitement, his heart 
beat rapidly—a blissfulness never before expe¬ 
rienced made him forget all that awaited him, 
abuse, threats, and blows. 

With a suppressed chuckle he sank down on 
his knees in the corner of the court and pressed 
the shaggy head of his friend against his palpi¬ 
tating heart. 

“Pluto, my old doggy, I have something for 
you.” 




263 


“der klingeljunge 


Tears filled his eyes as he felt the lumps on the 
head and the welts on the bruised body of the 
dog. 

“ Did he beat you, Pluto ? The- Don’t cry, 

my doggy; don’t cry. Here is your sausage, 
Pluto! Just think, a sausage made of liver!” 

The dog sniffed; his eyes sparkled; he opened 
his jaws wide and Hans in ecstacy threw in the 
sausage piece by piece. The pieces kept growing 
smaller and smaller, while the animal kept eagerly 
looking for more. 

“All gone, Pluto! All gone! I could only get 
half a one for the money, but you’ve got it inside 
and now he can beat me.” 

And Hans Stibiker was beaten when his father 
came home from the inspector’s—unmercifully, 
cruelly. 

“Accursed brat! Thief!” His father threw 
him to the ground, and, as his arm had become 
lame from beating, began to use his foot instead, 
while the child rolled about the floor in his en¬ 
deavor to avoid the blows. 

“ Where have you put the money ? You rascal, 
I’ll kill you.” 

“ Stibiker! For God’s sake, Stibiker!” With a 
cry the mother caught hold of the arm of her en¬ 
raged husband. “You’ll injure the boy and make 
him a cripple, and what then! Stibiker, for God’s 
sake, stop!” 

She began to shriek, and the children set up a 
howling as well. 

“Keep quiet! Hold your tongue! Give me 
back my honest name, my honest name! Is 
it for this I gave in to you and took the boy 



264 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


when we were married? You good-for-noth¬ 
ing. What is the brat to me ? I’ll kill him if I 
choose.” 

“Stibiker!” 

“Keep quiet-” 

A blow, a scream, and the woman fled to one 
side. Her apron before her face, she took refuge 
in the farthest corner. There she crouched and 
covered her ears so that she could not hear the 
moaning of her child. At last the enraged man 
ceased and, exhausted, threw himself down on 
the sofa. 

“My honest name—the scoundrel that he is, 
and then to be so stupid besides! To have noth¬ 
ing at all to say! But the inspector appreciated 
me. ‘Stibiker,’ he said, ‘I see that you are an 
estimable man; for your sake I will try the boy 
once more, but if the least thing happens again, 

then-*-’ So, you rascal, I warn you, if you are 

ever caught again, I’ll break every bone in your 
body.” 

“To think such a thing should happen to me! 
Me! Gottlieb Stibiker! During my whole life I 
have always conducted myself respectably. No 
one can deny that. You work and slave, and then 
such a scoundrel—through and through—a man 
of honor.” 

The last part was almost incoherent, as he had 
on the way to the dairy fortified himself a number 
of times. He soon fell asleep. 

Stars had appeared in the heavens, and one 
bright star was looking directly down in the court¬ 
yard as Hans Stibiker crawled up the basement 
steps. He was unable to walk, his limbs ached 



265 


“der klingeljunge” 


unspeakably, and he crept slowly along on his 
hands and knees. He felt his way across the 
court and sank down crying in the corner by the 
dog. With a low whine of recognition Pluto 
licked the boy’s hands and then stretched himself 
at his feet. There they both lay—sore, tired, 
beaten, and bruised, and above them the bright 
star—but they saw it not. 

“Boy! Where is the rest of the change? 
Surely you haven’t been thieving again?” The 
driver shook him by the arm. 

“I haven’t it; please believe me, I didn’t take 
it, I give you my word I didn’t.” Despairingly 
Hans Stibiker showed his empty hands. 

They were standing in the street by the side of 
the milk wagon. A sharp October wind was 
blowing the dry autumn leaves off the trees and 
about their feet. The child shivered under the 
cold blasts, a withered leaf himself. 

“I truly haven’t it. Please don’t report me. 
I haven’t it, I haven’t it, I haven’t it.” Mechani¬ 
cally the child repeated the w'ords. 

“Any one can say that,” replied the driver 
coldly. “ You come to the office. I am going to 
report you,” and he took the boy by the shoulder. 

Where was the money ? Perhaps it had fallen 
to the ground; perhaps the change had not been 
correctly made. . At any rate, it was gone, and 
Hans Stibiker, who had stolen once, no one could 
believe. 

“You are discharged; you can go immediately,” 
said the manager. “ I shall let your father know 
myself.” 



266 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Swaying from side to side, Hans wandered 
through the familiar streets. 

They did not believe him—they did not believe 
him! What now? An overwhelming fear pos¬ 
sessed him. He felt again the blows which in the 
summer had almost crushed his poor weak frame. 
Now it was autumn, but the welts had not yet 
disappeared. 

He heard again the abuse of his father, the 
moanings of his mother, and his own cries as well. 
A cold sweat stood out upon his forehead and ran 
down his temples, and, dizzy, he closed his eyes. 
Where to? where to? 

Should he hide in the woods where the foliage 
was the thickest ? They would find him. Should 
he try to escape to the open fields outside of the 
town? They would find him. Should he go 
somewhere far away in the wide .world? They 
would also find him there. 

With utter despair in his eyes, deathly pale, he 
reached home. He said nothing. They would 
know it soon enough. 

“Are you sick, child?” asked his mother, strok¬ 
ing his hair with her rough hand—usually she did 
not dare show affection, but to-day the father was 
not at home. “Are you sick?” 

He nodded dully, and then crept into the narrow 
bed which he shared with the two other children, 
and turned his face to the wall. There he lay 
feverish and cold by turns, his hands tightly 
pressed together under the coverlet. He couldn’t 
pray. He wasn’t accustomed to it, and then— 
what was the use? The fear, the fear was too 
terrible. 



267 


“der klingeljunge” 


In the evening the father came home intoxi¬ 
cated. 

“ Where is the boy ? ” he mumbled. Hans drew 
the covers tightly over his head and held his 
breath. 

“He is sick,” said the mother. 

“All right, then—to-morrow—the rascal.” 

The father threw himself heavily on his bed and 
was soon snoring. 

“To-morrow! Did he know it, or didn’t he?” 

Hot and flushed the boy tossed about, and with 
wide-open burning eyes stared into the darkness. 
An insatiable longing overcame him, much greater 
than his fear, longing to nestle somewhere, to seek 
protection for his tired head. 

Pluto! A smile suddenly brightened the child’s 
face. Pluto was his friend. It was to him he 
would go when morning dawned—to Pluto— 
Pluto. His thoughts began to get confused, all 
sorts of pictures came and went, but Pluto was 
always there. Then he fell asleep, his thin hands 
folded outside the coverlid, his mouth half open. 

It was very early when he awoke; he had slept 
quietly. The full moon was still shining; no day¬ 
light yet. Softly he got up, washed and dressed 
without noise, but with more care than usual. In 
his blue blouse, the green-bordered cap on his 
head, he crept through the room to where his 
mother slept, looked at her a moment, and then 
glided noiselessly out through the door. 

Stibiker was still snoring heavily when his wife 
was awakened by a piercing cry. It came from 
the yard. “ Stibiker—Stibiker—Sti-bi-ker.” 

15 



268 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


What could be the matter? In their bed, the 
young children were awake and beginning to 
squabble. 

Half asleep, the woman jumped up, threw a 
skirt over her. head, and barefooted groped her 
way to the window. Somebody was already 
knocking on the pane. 

“ Stibiker—Stibiker—Sti-bi-ker! ” What in the 
world could be the matter! 

The woman began to tremble, the uproar was 
so terrifying. 

“Come out! quick, quick! your boy—some¬ 
thing has happened.” 

Something happened? A horrible apprehen¬ 
sion rushed into the mind of the mother. She 
shook her husband. “Stibiker!” He turned on 
his side with a snore. The commotion outside 
grew louder and louder, a confusion of noises, a 
veritable babel of voices, and above it all—the 
howling of the dog, uncanny, vibrating, and con¬ 
tinuous. Trembling, the woman hurried into her 
clothes. She rushed into the yard. A general 
outcry greeted her. In a corner by the dog-house 
the crowd had collected. They were gathered 
into a solid mass. 

“What can be the matter? What can be the 
matter? ” 

“A calamity, woman; your boy—God preserve 
us!—Hans! ” 

They make way, the mother presses forward— 
a cry of horror which the walls of the court echo. 
Then the dog answers- 

Over the kennel a rusty hook projects from the 
wall, and on it swings, suspended by a leather 



269 


“der klingeljunge” 


strap, the emaciated body of a boy in a blue 
cotton blouse. The green-bordered cap has fallen 
to the ground, and the morning breeze plays 
through the thin, colorless hair. The mouth is 
partly open, and the eyes glassy. 

The dog makes frantic attempts to reach the 
dangling limbs but fails to do so. Then he 
crouches down, raises his head, and howls. He 
allows no one to approach. 

On the side of the dog-house is the large and 
irregular handwriting of a child, traced with a piece 
of chalk: 

“I didn’t steal that last money. Please 
be kind to Pluto.” 

“Hans Stibiker, 
Klingeljunge.” 



































' 

















































■ 


















THE BLACK-WINGED ANGEL 


FROM THE ITALIAN OF 


Virginia Olper Monis 







■ 













































































































































THE BLACK-WINGED ANGEL 


CHE knelt and prayed fervently, clasping his 
^ firm masculine hand with her thin, nervous 
fingers in order to include him in her prayer, but 
the current of sympathy did not pass from one to 
the other. 

The young couple had spent the first winter of 
their honeymoon in the mild climate of the 
Riviera, and had now come to enjoy, on the Adri¬ 
atic lagoons, the early intoxication of spring. 
Both were enraptured; she by the spirit of religion, 
which burned with a new flame in a strange tem¬ 
ple, and he by the artistic perfection everywhere 
displayed. 

He certainly felt the religious atmosphere also; 
this influence which had permeated history for 
more than nineteen centuries, but it made no deep 
impression upon him. He observed the phenome¬ 
non objectively. It all seemed strange to him, 
child of the present as he was; born an artist under 
the warm sun of the Provence and governed by his 
senses. He could not understand the dominion of 
this fantasy of religion which had poured out so 
much gold and spilled so much blood, which had 
18 273 



274 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


destroyed so many lives, and yet regave life, with 
its comforts of faith and its grievous humility of 
heart. All this grand pile he thought, where every 
step revealed a treasure of art had been conceived, 
built and maintained by this chimera, this childish 
need of the people and of the individual, this in¬ 
spiration of the great legion of artists, who had 
devoted to it the choicest fruits of their genius. 

A pressure from his wife’s hand caused him to 
turn his head toward her. He glanced indifferently 
and saw a pale face, bent low, an expression of 
religious contemplation, and eyes in which there 
was a look of discontent, as if for lost control. He 
suppressed a cynical smile, and said inwardly, 
“My dear, devout woman, Christianity has many 
sides,” and again he took up the study of the 
Bysantine dome, the pulpit in the form of a 
minaret, the Moorish arches, and a dim and mys¬ 
terious chapel before the uncertain whiteness of 
whose altar hung at different heights a number of 
antique gilded lamps. 

One might be in Stamboul, he mused; and then 
the Saints in the stately uniformity of their golden 
backgrounds, and clothed with the stiff drapery of 
distinct and yet blended colors, caused his mind 
to revert to the pompous ceremonies of the church 
in which he was. 

Helena’s prayer was finished, and her husband, 
not in the best of humor, arose and without regard¬ 
ing her started to walk about. He stopped wher¬ 
ever any object caught his fancy, greedy of seeing 
all, and devouring with his eyes the marvellous 
beauties of the place. He ended by completely 
forgetting his wife, who seemed to have become 



THE BLACK-WINGED ANGEL 275 


eclipsed behind the blankness of her immobile 
countenance, while his own ruddy and handsome 
face and blue eyes were filled with the sparkle of 
enthusiasm. She followed listlessly, hesitating 
from lack of sympathy to intrude herself upon him 
for 'the moment. 

In the course of a half-hour they found them¬ 
selves upon the marble steps of the chapel to the 
left of the choir, dim and mysterious like the 
others, but with lamps extinguished. A low un¬ 
certain light, however, illuminating the single 
alcove to the right, attracted the attention of the 
artist, and he saw in the glimmer of a candle at¬ 
tached to a projection of the wall a human figure 
moving slowly about. It was a workman restor¬ 
ing the mosaic by taking the pieces of glass deli¬ 
cately between his fingers and fitting them where 
they belonged. 

Gastone, after having watched him for some 
moments, turned away, when his eyes lighted upon 
a strange and beautiful mosaic picture. On a pale- 
gold background was a single figure, an angel in 
dark flowing raiment which fell in drapery about 
its feet and concealed them. Two large jet-black 
wings covered the arms and extended the full 
length of the figure, but left a slight opening at the 
bottom in the shape of a triangle. Looked at from 
below, the form had the appearance of a huge 
raven. The black was starred with small crosses 
of gold, and a large white cross divided the body 
with two bands lengthwise and from side to side. 
The head chaste and delicate, fine in its oval, with 
exquisitely blended tints, was reverently turned 
toward heaven, and breathed forth a gentleness at 



276 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


variance with the profound severity of the raiment 
and wings. This contrast exerted a mysterious 
fascination. 

A slight movement on the part of Helena awak¬ 
ened Gastone from his enchantment, and forgetful 
of their ill-humor—it was not the first difference 
between them—he took her hand in excitement, 
and murmured eagerly, “Look!” 

She looked. Born of English parents, ultra¬ 
catholic and aristocratic, who had settled in France, 
she had been educated in a convent with strict 
ideas as to religion and morality. Nevertheless, 
youth had asserted itself, and hardly out of school 
she had fallen in love at Biarritz with the hand¬ 
some artist. He was penniless but of good family, 
and her parents, fearful of losing their only child 
from ill-health, reluctantly consented to her mar¬ 
riage with him. Although yielding to love, she 
had not discarded in matrimony the strictness of 
her principles, nor the liking for mastery; a trait 
of her race and family as well as her own. The 
mind of her husband was to her a mystery which 
she did not seek to fathom. She had confidence, 
however, in her ability to convert him to religion; 
to the calm, even tenor of existence; confidence in 
imbuing him with her own cold serenity and 
quenching little by little his volcanic fantasies, 
which, while they charmed, at the same time terri¬ 
fied her. 

Helena therefore looked but did not understand. 
At the convent sacred pictures, whether beautiful 
or otherwise, were objects of prayer or education. 
So her expression was one merely of surprise, as 
she said: 



THE BLACK-WINGED ANGEL 


277 


“How strange! I thought all angels had snow- 
white wings and garments of sky-blue or white or 
pink.” 

Gastone’s artistic sense received an ice-cold 
shock, and he immediately relinquished his hold 
on his wife’s hand. 

The following day, in the early afternoon, when 
Helena was taking her usual siesta , he returned 
to the church alone, and wandered about until he 
found himself again in the small chapel before the 
mystic picture of the black-winged angel. At that 
hour of the long effulgent rays a large window to¬ 
ward the Pizaretta threw its light into the recess, 
and the angel, even more sinister and more solemn, 
stood out in the resplendent glory of its golden 
background softened by the greenish reflection of 
the sunbeams. 

He sat a little apart in the direction of the choir, 
and continued to gaze upon the picture, seized 
anew by a powerful esthetic emotion. 

In the church on week days there were no morn¬ 
ing services and few worshippers; some women 
with faces framed by the classic shawl were sitting 
about, to all appearances resting rather than pray¬ 
ing, and on their knees in obscure corners were 
several persons absorbed by their devotions. The 
church, however, in spite of its silence, was per¬ 
vaded by the outside world; tourists with guide¬ 
book in hand, and interpreters at elbow, were 
strolling about, and men and women artists were 
working at their easels or roughly outlining im¬ 
pressions in their sketch-books. 

Gastone now noticed for the first time the mar¬ 
vellous dome of the chapel containing the figure of 



278 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


the angel. It was supported by slender and grace¬ 
ful columns of marble, and its gilded panels were 
richly carved with Gothic designs. While exam¬ 
ining the details, the noise of an easel being put in 
place in the choir, accompanied by the murmur 
of voices and the rustle of a dress, caused Gastone 
to turn his head. 

A young woman, with the assistance of a street 
arab, was putting her utensils in position for paint¬ 
ing. She finally arranged them to her satisfaction, 
and passing a cloth spotted with colors through her 
leather belt, she sat down on a camp-stool with her 
paint-box on her knee, her palette in her left hand, 
and her brush in her right. She was beautiful, 
of a beauty intelligent and at the same time 
piquant. Underneath the wide brim of her leg¬ 
horn hat, adorned only with a wreath of many- 
colored morning-glories, a wealth of dark chestnut 
hair was visible; her rich complexion was lighted 
up by two passionate black eyes, and her half-open 
lips were full and red. A dark gown, long and 
close-fitting, disclosed a figure well rounded and 
graceful, giving evidence of youth in its second 
flower; the bodice was slightly open at the neck 
with a rolling collar, beneath which a silk hand¬ 
kerchief was loosely tied. 

When, after a few moments of concentration, 
she happened, in raising her head, to turn her 
glance toward the chapel, she encountered there 
two expressive blue eyes and a face full of vivacity 
in which she saw an undisguised look of admira¬ 
tion. She did not appear embarrassed, and al¬ 
though she lowered her eyes instantly the shadow 
of a smile flitted across her lips. 



THE BLACK-WINGED ANGEL 279 


Gastone arose and descended the steps of the 
chapel, unmindful now of the artistic beauty of the 
angel, and already attracted by this other picture 
with its charm of actual life and feeling. He went 
up the few steps of the choir and stood behind her 
at a distance a little less than respectful. She felt 
his presence, but feigned not to be aware of those 
eyes which had already fascinated her. Her work, 
however, made little progress. 

The following day, when she went at the same 
hour, he was in the choir seated before a canvas 
on which were sketched a few outlines. The same 
boy arranged her painting materials, and after the 
two artists had watched one another’s work for 
some time, the magnetic sympathy between them 
was enough to enable them to enter naturally into 
conversation. 

She was approachable and sincere; he impres¬ 
sionable and fickle—two ardent Southern natures, 
of innate sensuality, refined by art, which imme¬ 
diately understood, interested, and attracted each 
other. 

After three days’ acquaintance a close tie was 
established between them, and after a week pas¬ 
sion involved them in its raging whirlpool. The 
subdued conversation which the sacredness of the 
place imposed failed to satisfy them, so they trans¬ 
ferred their love-making to beneath the canopy of 
the gondola, to the leafy nooks of the public gar¬ 
dens, and to the sands of the Lido. The passion 
which united them was ideal, combining as it did 
the artistic delights of the soul, and of the intellect 
as well. 

She was a Sicilian, an orphan, educated in 




28 o 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Florence by an uncle, who at his death left her 
sufficient fortune to follow her tastes and inclina¬ 
tions. She devoted herself to art with all the 
strength of her nature, and her impulses allowed 
her to be carried away by spontaneous and ardent 
attachments, which, like bundles of straw, were 
quick to burst into flame and quick again to con¬ 
sume themselves. Liberal in ideas, enamoured 
of art, and receptive to love, she exerted an irre¬ 
sistible fascination over the provincial artist. 

At the “ Albergo della Luna” Helena was alone, 
abandoned early every afternoon, and while it is 
true that she sought quiet and repose, the long 
hours at last began to weary her. In the begin¬ 
ning she believed her husband was taking advan¬ 
tage of the favorable light to work upon an 
aquarelle, but as the absences of Gastone became 
more and more prolonged she grew curious and 
annoyed. She kept asking him: 

“Always the same aquarelle in the church?” 

He answered briefly: 

“Always.” 

One day she went to see it: this famous aquar¬ 
elle! Where could it be? Perhaps it was the 
black-winged angel which had captivated him so! 

In a deserted part of the choir she found not 
one but two easels close together, with camp- 
stools in front of them, empty, and, seeing a boy 
in charge, she gave him a piece of money and 
asked who the artists were who were working on 
those pictures. 

“Due belle creature,” exclaimed the boy, with 
the vivacity of the Venetian vagabond. “Due 
belle creature; he blond and she dark”—and he 



THE BLACK-WINGED ANGEL 281 


described them, and added that they must be firm 
friends since they were constantly in one another’s 
company, and that when tired of talking and paint¬ 
ing they always left the church together. 

Helena became livid, and her delicate frame 
shook with excitement—after six months of mar¬ 
riage! She suffered, however, more from wounded 
pride than from either grief or love. She declared 
herself ill that night and feigned sleep, but wept 
bitter tears until morning, while Gastone slum¬ 
bered peacefully, as if he enjoyed a free con¬ 
science. 

On the following day, a half-hour after he had 
left, she was in the church, and from the nave saw 
the two easels again side by side, and the two 
empty camp-stools. She prepared to wait, but 
the boy of the day before, recognizing her, touched 
her sleeve and told her that “gli amici” were in 
the small chapel to the left of the choir. She 
turned and staggered toward it, but as she ap¬ 
proached the foot of the steps she stopped: her 
breath had failed her. ^She listened and heard a 
suppressed and tender voice; the unmistakable 
accents of a woman who whispered : 

“Amore—far away in my native island, beneath 
palm and orange trees, where the very air is per¬ 
fume, I have a ‘casetta,’ a tiny cottage, a nest— 
come! Come with me where the glowing sun 
finds the earth eager to receive its burning rays.” 

“Hush, Carmela! hush!” responded Gastone. 

Helena from below could not see them; she only 
saw the angel, that sinister figure on the golden 
background, the angel whose sharply outlined 
body bore the huge white cross, and whose raven 



282 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


wings were marked with crosses of gold. The 
gentle look turned toward the skies seemed to 
avoid the spectacle of the guilty lovers and bury 
itself in the purity of heaven. 

Helena, seized with horror, cried aloud, as if 
hurling an anathema: 

“ Sacrilege!” 

Gastone sprang up in fright. He looked down 
—no one. He glanced up hastily and saw Helena 
hurry across the church and disappear quickly 
through the door, holding her head in her hands. 

A few days after he was in Sicily beneath the 
palm and orange trees, giving himself up to the 
intoxication of a frenzied passion, and the young 
wife was clad in the costume of a novitiate of the 
Convent of the Sacred Heart where she had been 
reared. There she found a church where religion 
and not art prevailed, where the raiment of the 
angels was heaven’s blue, and their wings a spot¬ 
less white—where no sight and no sound dis¬ 
turbed their divine purity. 

But the angels of turquoise and of white faded 
away as she prayed, and she saw before her only 
the angel of black, sad and profaned. She beat 
her breast, and in her ascetic humiliation accused 
herself; she had been guilty of a profane love for 
the unrighteous artist, and had so become the 
direct cause of a sacrilege. 

“Mea culpa,” she moaned, “the fault has been 
mine, divine angel, forgive me!” 



THE BREADSELLER 


FROM THE SPANISH OF 


Miguel Ramos Carrion 








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* 











































■ 















































THE BREADSELLER 



were driving through the country, and 


y y had stopped at a small town to rest and 
feed our horses. 

The gray sky and the cool air seemed to offer a 
favorable opportunity to stretch our limbs and 
loosen the muscles grown stiff from confinement 
in the wagon. We wandered through the lonely 
streets until we chanced upon a square, evidently 
used by the country people as a market-place. 

Although market day, an unaccustomed quiet 
seemed to pervade the locality, and the usually 
noisy venders showed no anxiety to dispose of 
their wares. The booths were abandoned, and 
earthen bowls of milk and cream, baskets of fruit 
and cheese, and heaps of salads and vegetables, 
were lying unprotected on the ground. 

The peasants had congregated into groups, and 
it was not difficult to see that an atmosphere of 
sadness and foreboding reigned everywhere. The 
women wore neckerchiefs of black, instead of the 
highly colored ones with which they habitually 
adorn themselves in Asturia. Black had also re¬ 
placed the bright skirts, and chains of that same 
color had been substituted for those of coral. 



286 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Across the sea the Spanish Army was engaged 
in tiresome and disastrous warfare, which had 
thrown into mourning a large proportion of the 
people at home. There was hardly a family 
among these market folk who did not mourn the 
loss of some loved one, a father, brother, or per¬ 
haps a friend or lover. This explained their rest¬ 
lessness and anxiety for news. 

The mail, with the Madrid newspapers, had 
come only a few moments before our arrival, and 
with its favorable or unfavorable reports had 
brought to these groups of peasants either conso¬ 
lation or grief—joy on account of those still living, 
or tears for those who would never return. 

Crowded around a single reader, who traced the 
lines with his forefinger and spelled out the words 
with aggravating slowness, men and women—the 
latter in the majority—listened breathlessly to re¬ 
ports of victories and defeats, to accounts of heroic 
deeds and dire calamities. The reader was occa¬ 
sionally interrupted by cries of anguish or excla¬ 
mations of joy, comments were frequent, and 
discussions loud and vehement, in which all spoke 
at once, broke out now and again. Then all was 
silent, and the crowd returned to listen with one 
head pressed against another, with necks stretched 
forward and eyes wide open. 

Suddenly a piercing cry rang out on the oppo¬ 
site side of the square. The peasants who formed 
the groups hurried in the direction from which it 
came. We followed, but such a crowd had al¬ 
ready gathered around the woman who had 
uttered the cry that it was impossible for us to see 
her. We were certain, however, that she had met 



THE BREADSELLER 


287 


with an accident, since we could plainly hear her 
moaning, interrupted by short gasps. There was 
so much noise and confusion that we were unable 
to learn what had happened. We caught, how¬ 
ever, occasional scraps of conversation. 

“It is Soleda, the bakeress,” said one of the 
bystanders. 

“What misfortune!” 

“ First her brother and now her betrothed. Do 
you think she will recover from such a blow? 
They were devoted lovers.” 

“Poor Xuanin.” 

“The newspapers say he died like a hero.” 

“He was a fine fellow.” 

“It will be terrible for his mother: he was her 
only support; the others are mere children.” 

“Look! Look! She is coming to herself.” 

Anxious to see the unfortunate sweetheart of the 
dead soldier, I pushed my way through the crowd. 
A young woman lay stretched on the ground, held 
down by some persons, among them the village 
doctor, who was seeking to control her convulsive 
motions. 

Neither the painful contraction of her features 
nor the hard-set expression of her mouth could 
conceal the fact that she was more than ordinarily 
attractive. Her thick hair fell in undulating 
waves down her graceful neck and over the curve 
of her white bosom. 

“Pull the heart-finger,” counselled an old 
peasant. 

“ No; leave her alone,” I said. “ She will return 
to consciousness herself.” 

“Is the gentleman a doctor?” I replied in the 



288 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


affirmative in order to have an opportunity to 
render assistance, and taking from my pocket a 
small bottle of salts, I held it under her nostrils. 
She gasped and began to breathe heavily, and 
after a moment opened her large eyes. 

The crowd looked at me with a mixture of 
respect and consternation. The result of my 
treatment seemed to them little short of- a miracle. 

“Unhappy village doctor!” I had done him an 
ill turn; his reputation had probably already suf¬ 
fered by comparison; he was doubtless now little 
better than a quack. 

With the aid of the women I lifted the girl from 
the ground and placed her upon a bench. Upon 
her return to consciousness came again the realiza¬ 
tion of her sorrow. 

“Xuanin, my life, my soul!” she cried. 

“Try not to give way so,” said one of the 
women who supported her, and was gathering up 
the luxurious hair now all in disorder. “Who 
knows but the papers may be mistaken.” 

“Oh, Xuanin, mio!” repeated the unhappy 
girl, pushing back the locks from her forehead, 
and giving no heed to the words of consolation 
spoken by those about her. “I know I shall 
never see you again. Why must I live on in this 
world without you. No! I want to die!” 

The crisis of the nervous attack having passed, 
a flood of tears burst forth, and her bosom heaved 
under her black bodice as she gave vent to heart¬ 
rending sobs. 

Moved by such genuine grief, I turned away, 
and passing through the crowd, which fell back 
respectfully, I was soon out of the square. For a 



THE BREADSELLER 


289 


considerable distance I could still hear the moan¬ 
ing of the breadseller as she kept repeating, “I 
want to die. I want to die.” 

Four years had elapsed, and I again chanced 
to pass through the town. I recognized its 
wooded border of chestnut and beech trees, the 
tiny white houses, and the pointed steeple of the 
church, and recalled the circumstances of the 
breadseller and the impression it had made upon 
me at the time. 

This recollection prompted me to again visit 
the square, and I descended from the wagon for 
that purpose. 

What a contrast to the previous scene! The 
market-place was all animation and uproar. The 
bright costumes of the peasants, their monotonous 
cries as they offered their wares, the buzz of con¬ 
versation, the shouting of the children, the inces¬ 
sant coming and going of the bargain seekers, pre¬ 
sented a picture full of life and color. 

By a sort of intuition my footsteps were directed 
toward the stand of the same breadseller, whom 
I immediately recognized. Her well-shaped head 
was covered by a red-and-white handkerchief 
from which peeped out one or two stray curls, and 
the gay colors of her costume displayed her charms 
to advantage as she sat upon her bench with the 
grace and dignity of a queen. 

On the table before her lay a number of golden- 
brown loaves, each as large as a grindstone, and 
beside her on the bench was something carefully 
wrapped in a shawl, at which she repeatedly 
glanced with unmistakable interest. 

19 



290 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


As I stopped in front of her stand the young 
woman lifted her large brown eyes and looked 
at me with an inquiring glance. These eyes, 
which I had previously seen dimmed with tears, 
now shone with the unmistakable light of joy and 
happiness. 

“Do you wish a loaf of bread, senor?” she 
inquired, in a manner which indicated her sur¬ 
prise that a gentleman should be seeking such 
ordinary merchandise. 

“No, girl,” I answered. “I only stopped to see 
how you were faring. Do you remember irie?” 

“I? No, senor-” 

“ I am the physician who was present and helped 
you the day you heard the news of the death of 
your lover, Xuanin.” 

She nodded her head, and answered so indif¬ 
ferently that I was at a loss for an explanation. 

“You must pardon me, senor, for not remem¬ 
bering, but I hardly saw you at the time.” 

“And Xuanin—you remember him?” I in¬ 
quired, in almost a tone of reproach. 

With a careless laugh she replied: 

“Why do you ask me that? I have married, 
and have now no thought to spare for him. He 
is without doubt happy in heaven.” 

“So you are married?” 

“Yes, senor. What is strange about that?” 

And turning toward the bundle on the bench, 
she carefully lifted the shawl, and taking from its 
resting place a chubby infant, who stretched itself 
and rubbed its eyes with its tiny fists. She nestled 
it close to her bosom. 

“Then you have a child?” I remarked. 



THE BREADSELLER 


291 


“Yes, senor, I have two. The grandmother is 
caring for the other. I have been married three 
years.” 

“Three years,” thought I; “in how short a time 
can one forget!” 

“Adios, and may you be happy with your hus¬ 
band and children. To-day you do not exclaim, 
as you did the last time, ‘ I want to die! I want 
to die!’” 

“No, senor,” she answered, and, as she bent 
down to kiss the child in her arms, she repeated, 
“Little one, light of my soul! I want to live, yes, 
I want to live!” 






THE LITTLE BROWN SHOES 

FROM THE GERMAN OF 


Clara Viebig 
































































- 




























































THE LITTLE BROWN SHOES 


IN the shop-window on the corner all sorts of 
* shoes were displayed: men’s shoes and 
women’s shoes, large and small, and attached to 
each pair was a ticket with the price. 

Reductions! Bargains! Low Prices! 

Right in the centre of all these, so that at night 
the light of the electric lamp fell full upon them 
and by day the rays of the sun danced over them 
in a golden shower, stood a pair of tiny baby 
shoes, with soft soles and white stitching. 

In them had been inserted sky-blue baby socks 
stuffed out with cotton, giving the impression that 
they were already filled with a pair of toddling 
baby legs. 

4 ‘What a pity they cost so much,” said the pale 
young wife, as she drew her husband toward the 
window. “Look. How sweet! If our baby 
could only have them!” 

“Before it is born? No, no! It is unlucky to 
buy anything so long before. I am superstitious 
about it.”v 

A sad smile crossed the young woman’s coun- 
295 



296 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


tenance. “I have stood here so often looking at 
them. I can never go by. I am afraid every day 
they will be sold. That would be terrible.” An 
expression of dread came over her pinched face. 
“Suppose they should be gone before the little 
one came!” 

She did not dare say, “Won’t you buy them?” 
She was so unassertive, almost diffident. Her 
eyes for a moment rested with a peculiar dreamy 
look on the little brown shoes, and then with a 
sigh she turned reluctantly away. 

Mauke, a young government clerk, was taking 
his wife out for a walk. By strolling as far as the 
end of the suburbs in which they lived, they were 
able to get a breath of fresh air. The houses 
there were somewhat scattered. They were occu¬ 
pied by work-people, and droves of children, un¬ 
hindered by traffic, crowded the streets. 

In the vacant lots were piles of dirt and heaps 
of rubbish: here and there overgrown sunflowers 
nodded, and unhealthy vines made feeble attempts 
at climbing. 

Beyond all this lay a sandy waste, the approach 
to a large city, and beyond that again the autumn 
sun hung like a red ball sinking deeper and deeper 
toward the horizon. 

They wandered along in the sunset. The face 
of the young wife glowed with a peculiar light; 
there were tears in her eyes; she murmured softly, 
“the shoes—the beautiful little shoes.” 

At night she dreamed about them; they had 
crept up four flights of stairs to her bedroom and 
were dancing over the wooden floor up and down 
in front of the bed. Their brown leather glistened, 



THE LITTLE BROWN SHOES 


2 97 


they pattered merrily, and the white stitches 
seemed to twinkle. The little soft soles touched 
the floor as daintily as the velvety paws of a kitten, 
and in place of the sky-blue socks there were now 
real rosy baby legs in the shoes. Oh! How saucy 
they were! 

“Marie, Marie, lie still!” 

The government clerk bent over his wife, “Is 
there anything the matter?” 

She was only half awake. Confused, she raised 
her head from the pillow. “ I have been dreaming 
about- Oh, you know, I had such a wonder¬ 

ful dream.” 

“Yes, yes! Try to be quiet.” He experienced 
a certain sense of uneasiness. 

The next morning as he hurried to his work, 
clad in his threadbare overcoat, he stood a mo¬ 
ment on the corner. Bathed in the bright sun¬ 
shine the little brown shoes confronted him through 
the expanse of shop-window: they were as if 
dipped in gold, little metallic fireflies, eager to be 
on the wing—they bewitched him. Bah! How 
silly to be superstitious. 

But suppose he could suddenly put the little 
things on Marie’s work-table, how delighted she 
would be! He could hear her cry of joy. 

Five marks! He stood lost in thought. A sud¬ 
den gust of wind swept around the corner and 
brought him to his senses; the sun went under a 
cloud: the shop-window darkened, and the golden 
fireflies were dead, their flame extinguished. 

A cold chill ran down his back. With a shiver 
he turned up his collar and buttoned the thread¬ 
bare coat across his chest. No, he must not buy 




298 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


them. There were so many necessary expenses 
now, and so many more to come. Above all, the 
house must be kept warm. Brrr, how cold it 
was! He turned away, and the wind whistled 
after him. 

.Chilled to the bone, he sat in the office and 
filled out his records. Through the small window- 
pane only a feeble ray of sunshine found its way. 
Below, the court was narrow and damp. Above 
was a small round spot of sky, no more than a 
chimney-sweep sees looking up a chimney. 

It seemed hours before Mauke became warm. 
His fellow clerk had a cheap cigar between his 
teeth, and was telling of a hard bicycle ride and 
the terrible heat. That had some effect. 

The sun lay upon the pavement as the govern¬ 
ment clerk started for home. The dwarfed trees 
on each side of the street were still green. He 
opened his coat, and as he hurried along the heat 
seemed oppressive. 

Now he came to the corner, the accursed, 
draughty corner. 

He must warn Marie not to stand there, as she 
would certainly take cold. 

A cool current of air seemed to blow from the 
window. When the shop door opened, how 
mouldy it smelled inside. The man evidently did 
not ventilate. Bah! 

Mauke stared in through the shop window. He 
had never bought anything there. The shop was 
dismal as the grave, and the proprietor looked so 
miserable—mere skin and bones. He stood be¬ 
hind the counter and peered with deep sunken 
eyes after a possible customer. When he noticed 



THE LITTLE BROWN SHOES 


2Q9 


Mauke he came outside. What a disagreeable 
smile he had! 

Depressed in spirits, the clerk reached home. 
He looked at Marie; she was disappointed. She 
had hoped he would bring the little shoes. Her 
kiss seemed colder than usual. With woe-begone 
resignation, her lips only just touched his fore¬ 
head. 

The little shoes, the little shoes! That was her 
fixed idea. She went secretly and looked at them 
again and again. 

There was an autumn chill in the air. Sheets 
of rain came down and beat the leaves from the 
trees. Shivering and unmindful of the cold wind, 
the young wife stood before the shop window and 
dreamed. 

Oh! to see her child walk for the first time in 
the tiny shoes—her child, her dear little child. 
She would take its hand and lead it out toddling 
to meet its father. How the little feet would pat¬ 
ter! Then he would no more be out of humor; 
he would like the little brown shoes as well as she 
did. 

Run! Run! Don’t fall! Oh, my child! My 
darling child in your dainty little shoes! 

She shuddered. The shop-keeper had opened 
the door and was looking sharply at her. 

“Do you wish anything, madam?” 

She flushed and drew back her hand. She had 
been patting and stroking the window-glass with 
her fingers. 

“I—I—what is the price of the little shoes?” 

“ Oh, those first baby-shoes. Do you like them ? 
Cheap, wonderfully cheap. Come in, please.” 



3 °° 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


She followed him in, drawn by some magnetic 
influence. 

He stretched out his lean arm and took the 
shoes from the window. With his bony fingers he 
held them up before her face. 

“An unusual bargain! Only this pair left! 
You ought not to let the opportunity go by, 
my dear lady. Shall I wrap them up for 
you?” 

“Thank you,” she said hastily. “No, no, I am 
afraid I cannot—not now—thank you-” 

“You are not going to take them ? ” He glanced 
at her angrily. It was a long time before she 
could forget the malicious look he gave her out 
of his deep sunken eyes. 

With wet feet and dishevelled hair, blown about 
in her struggle with wind and rain, chilled from 
long standing, she finally reached home. 

As the result of that day’s experience she was 
taken ill. 

When the child was born the mother was found 
to be in a precarious condition. She had a cough 
and high fever and was unable to sit up for six 
weeks. 

It was the beginning of the seventh week and, 
in the twilight, Mauke sat by the bedside and held 
her hand. It was quiet in the room; the little 
one slept. She had it by her side, and with her 
left arm pressed it against her breast. 

Roses glowed in her cheeks, her eyes were 
closed, her lashes were pencilled against the flesh, 
and on her white girlish forehead were marked 
two deeply cut wrinkles. 



THE LITTLE BROWN SHOES. 


3°I 


Outside lay the snow and hushed every sound. 
By the window the hyacinth, slender and pale, 
with just a suspicion of color, sent forth a breath 
of perfume. 

The young mother seemed to be in a stupor. 
Her husband watched her attentively for a long 
time, then raised her up in bed so that she might 
look out the window. 

Outside all was white and dead in a pale, faded 
light; giant twilight shadows began to creep up 
the side of the houses; slowly they mounted, higher 
and higher until they were opposite the fourth- 
story window. 

The invalid moved restlessly and sighed. 

“Marie,” the husband said softly, “were you 
asleep?” 

“Yes, and dreaming.” There was a strange 
sweetness in her voice. “ Such a beautiful dream, 
such as I used to have long ago. Now that our 
child is here you can buy—you surely can now” 
She hesitated. “Don’t be angry—I would so like 
to know whether the little brown shoes have been 
sold yet.” 

When the neighbor, who looked after the 
mother, came with the lamp, Mauke went out and 
bought the shoes. They were still there. Smiling 
and servile, the proprietor wrapped them in green- 
striped tissue paper. When he returned his wife 
was lying quietly with closed eyes. She opened 
them wide and they shone with a peculiar light. 

“ Look! ” he put the paper package in her hands. 
“Now unwrap them.” A smile lighted up her 
face. 



3°2 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


Her countenance glowed with pleasure; it grew 
brighter and brighter. With trembling, feverish 
hands she began to undo the paper; it tore before 

she had finished. “Oh! the shoes! The-” 

There she stopped. The child by her side started 
to cry, louder and still louder—doubled up its fists 
and struggled as if in pain. 

Anxiously the father bent over the bed. “I 
wonder what is the matter.” Changing his tone 
and trying to smile, he added, “Aha! He is 
pleased with his little shoes.” 

He took the child from the mother’s side, 
walked up and down the room with it, and talked 
to it caressingly about the beautiful new shoes. 

The young mother lay peacefully still and lis¬ 
tened. Joy had exhausted her. At intervals she 
gave a deep sigh of contentment. 

The following night Marie Mauke died. The 
old neighbor sobbingly took a little shoe out of 
her icy and tightly clenched hand. The poor 
mother would not give it up the previous night, 
but now she must. The perfume of the hyacinth 
in the window was suffocating. The woman took 
a pair of scissors, cut off the stem, and put the 
flower between the dead mother’s wax-white 
fingers. 

Weeks went by—months. The little brown 
shoes reposed on the top of a high chest of drawers, 
forgotten. 

Mauke did not wish to see them—they reminded 
him too painfully of his wife. 

They became covered with dust. Every now 
and again the neighbor climbed up on a chair, 



THE LITTLE BROWN SHOES 


303 


took them down, and rubbed them off. The little 
things always seemed so pitiful to her. 

Finally the baby needed shoes. She held them 
up before him and slapped the soles together. 
“My! How fine! Such a big boy!” 

When the father came home the youngster 
toddled out to meet him, holding the hand of the 
old woman. 

The child could neither walk alone nor talk, but 
he was very proud of his little shoes. He cried 
when they had to be taken off, and crowed with 
pleasure when they were put on. He examined 
them with wide-open eyes and fingered and played 
with the white stitching. 

“My little babe!” said Mauke, with tears in his 
eyes, “if Marie could only be here to see him!” 

He said nothing further. He was a man of few 
words. He took everything bad or good in a quiet, 
resigned manner. The sun had never shone full 
in his face; he had only seen it reflected through a 
small window-pane, together with a tiny square of 
sky. 

Soon the shoes began to show wear as the child 
crept about so much on the wooden floor. The 
white stitching became soiled. Some of the brown 
surface had peeled off, and finally a hole appeared 
in the toe. Mauke took them to be repaired, but 
the proprietor of the shop on the corner growled. 
“Baby shoes are not worth mending.” Then the 
man made an attempt to grin, but only showed his 
teeth without changing his expression. “Throw 
them away. Here are new ones. Look how 
cheap. These, are worn out. Better buy new 
ones.” 




304 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


“I have an idea,” Mauke said, when he reached 
home, to his friend the old neighbor. 

“What is it?” she asked. “Let me hear it.” 
Her curiosity was aroused, he smiled so mean¬ 
ingly. “What is it?” But she could draw noth¬ 
ing out of him. He only kept repeating, impor¬ 
tantly, like a child, “I have an idea.” 

Early the following Sunday morning he took his 
young son, who was now a year old, in his arms 
and kissed him. Then he put on his best black 
coat and, carefully brushing his tall hat, went 
out. 

The open country beyond the city limits shone 
like a great white field, the sidewalk in front of the 
last house had been swept clean, but the snow 
lay in the streets. Christmas weather, with the 
scent of the fir-tree in the air, with green wreaths 
and decorations everywhere, and in the shop 
windows gold and silver tinsel, sweets and apples 
and nuts. 

Behind the glass in the window of the shop on 
the corner the shoes were arranged in rows to 
attract Christmas purchasers, and were festooned 
with greens and dotted with balls of white cotton 
and colored paper. 

Mauke cast a melancholy glance at the window 
and gave a long yearning look at the part of the 
sidewalk in front of it—she had so often stood 
there. And then he continued his way among the 
men and women and merry children, past the 
hurrying shoppers, the Christmas trees, the rolling 
tram-cars, the lumbering drays, by lighted shops 
and joyous homes, farther and farther, till the 
street became quieter and finally quite still. 



THE LITTLE BROWN SHOES 


305 


It was the cemetery. 

In front of him two children trotted, their little 
bodies being the only variation in the entire land¬ 
scape, and the only evidence of life. 

Otherwise all was silent and dead. 

He heard their voices; they were laughing and 
happy; they carried a small Christmas tree deco¬ 
rated with tinsel. Through the long rows of 
graves he followed them; they stopped before a 
small mound and put the tree on the grave of a 
little brother or sister. 

Even the dead are remembered at Christmas. 

Mauke continued farther, not with measured 
steps, as it is customary to go in such a place. 
No! he hurried, and, as if carried on wings, he 
ran past the white hills, past the white trees. He 
stopped breathless, hot, and tired. 

He looked shyly around; no one was in sight, 
only the countless plots, with their snow-crowned 
railings, naked rose-stalks, cypresses in their man¬ 
tles of snow, and the heaven above, gray-white 
and heavy as if it were about to fall. 

Mauke took something from his pocket and laid 
it down on the grave. “There, Marie, you have 
them at last.” 

The fellow clerk who smoked the cheap cigars 
no longer worked in the same office with Mauke, 
the government clerk. In December he had 
changed his position. A few weeks after Christ¬ 
mas the former associates met on the street. 

“Ah, Mauke.” He had the same kind of evil¬ 
smelling cigar between his teeth, but took it out 
in order to be better able to express his pleasure. 


20 




3°6 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


“Ah, old fellow, I am so delighted to see you again! 
How goes it?” 

“I have lost my child,” said Mauke, in a tone- 
lpcc voice. 

“What? You really- Why--” He 

puffed once or twice on the cigar. He was some¬ 
what disconcerted. “Why—how old was it?” 

“It had just put on its first little shoes. I took 

them out to Marie’s grave—now she has-” 

Mauke choked and then turned away. 

The other heard him mutter, “Now she has the 
little brown shoes.” 





MENDICANT MELODY 


FROM THE ITALIAN OF 


Edmonde de Amicis 


















































V 


ft 






/ 






























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MENDICANT MELODY 


f WONDER who is the sadder in this world of 
* hunger, he who sings or he who listens ? 

I often think how much of this sadness I wit¬ 
nessed sitting by my study window in the house 
in which I spent fifteen years of my life, and look¬ 
ing out into the courtyard where the compassion 
of the landlord permitted all the singing and listen¬ 
ing misery of Turin to enter. 

This pitiful vagabond music came there to 
bdmoan and entreat at all hours of the day, and 
under all conditions; sometimes I heard it at sun¬ 
rise, and sometimes at the closing in of night. 

There were moribund tenor voices still per¬ 
sistent in imploring the penny and refusing to be 
subdued by the rain; there were the childish notes 
of a song almost smothered by large flakes of 
falling snow and sentimental ditties, accompanied 
by the rumbling of thunder, and interrupted by 
the singer stopping to shield his eyes from blinding 
flashes of lightning. And more than once in the 
burning heat of an August day, when the sun fairly 
baked the walls, and the whole house seemed 
stupefied, in this flaming air and this dead silence, 

309 



3 IQ 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


arose the voice of an unfortunate one whose very 
song gave evidence of a day passed without food. 

What pitiful and manifold stanzas of melodious 
misery! All conditions from infancy, which com¬ 
mences to sing before knowing how to form its 
words, to decrepit old age, which has lost the power 
to form them, but still sings. 

Every infirmity, every deformity, every aspect 
of misfortune and grief came under my window; 
from the mountaineer who sang a melancholy song 
in a dialect known only in the valleys of the Alps, 
to the Sicilian boy who, warbling all the way, had 
travelled the length of the peninsula, and whose 
first notes caused me to lift ray head and see a 
vision of an azure gulf with a leafy crown of 
orange trees. 

Evidences of poverty and misery and signs of a 
life of hardship were manifested by the instru¬ 
ments themselves; the voice of weariness and 
anguish cried out in the squeaking violins, the dis¬ 
cordant harps, the coughing and wheezing flutes 
and trombones, and the loosely strung tambour¬ 
ines held out by tired hands to receive charity. 

From time to time I heard a voice melodious, 
but impaired by ill-usage, the remains of a former 
glory which drew the curious to the window and 
gave their faces an expression of sorrow that such 
a precious article should be destroyed. The ac¬ 
cent and modulation were those of the stage, and 
the story could be readily divined: from the 
theatre to the cafe, from the cafe to the tavern, 
from the tavern to the courtyard, and then to the 
hospital. And was it strange that the singer con¬ 
tinued in adversity to ask bread of the art which 



MENDICANT MELODY 


3 11 


had so lavishly provided for him in better days, 
when so many without voice, without ear, without 
musical sense, resort to song as a means of liveli¬ 
hood. But how pitiful the open mouth from 
which no melody issues, this childish pretence 
intended to save the last vestige of shame at ask¬ 
ing without giving something in return. 

Then the blind would come, led by companions 
who could still distinguish a faint glimmer of day¬ 
light, and must provide sight for two; then old 
men and women in peasant costumes, singing 
with shrill voices the same monotonous song, the 
only one perchance they had known in the hamlet 
where they were born, lank and long-haired, with 
sinister features and casting thievish glances about. 
Children came also, even the tiny ones, pretty in 
spite of their rags, the cords of their necks swelling, 
and all the forces of their emaciated bodies work¬ 
ing in unison in their efforts to sing. What will 
be their lot, poor little forsaken songbirds ? While, 
other children sing from sheer happiness, their 
singing is surely a punishment. 

I heard head notes and notes from the nose, 
intermittent as over broken keys or tremulous like 
the bleating of a lamb; voices squeaking and 
hollow, scarcely to be recognized as human; bass 
voices which sang tenor airs; baritone singing 
soprano, all lost to shame of discord, and auda¬ 
ciously omitting the high notes or substituting 
false ones of their own with the barefaced effron¬ 
tery of a quack who feels he can cheat with 
impunity. All the injury which the human vocal 
organs can suffer; all the crimes they can commit 
were there. 



3 12 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


What strange subterranean passages of senti¬ 
ment and tone, from the lively airs of the opera- 
bouffe to the plaintive entreaties directed toward 
deserted windows! 

“Signori, something for charity’s sake! Take 
compassion on a poor unfortunate!” 

And what an extraordinary and incredible 
mutilation and confusion of musical motives and 
words which give the impression of the bewilder¬ 
ing song of a dreamer or the delirium of a musical 
maniac. 

There came often a whole family, father, 
mother, and a nestful of children, who stood in 
a group in the centre of the court and sang all 
together with wide-open mouths, each one on his 
own account like a shipwrecked family on a raft 
calling desperately for succor to a far-off vessel. 

I remember also a diminutive hunchback who 
used to play upon a trombone larger than himself, 

• out of which, with closed eyes, he blew distressing 
and threatening notes having no connection at all 
with one another. When he had finished he 
would remain for a time perfectly motionless, 
neither looking about nor asking alms, as though 
he feared to lower his dignity, and if he received 
nothing he would go away, head erect, wrapped 
in a superb silence. 

And what impressed me deeply was an old man 
with a battered high hat, and his long, white hair 
falling over his shoulders, who, following a tune of 
his own, and with energy and seriousness worthy 
of inspiration, would pound together two bent and 
weather-beaten cymbals, producing a noise re¬ 
sembling the successive breaking of window-panes. 



MENDICANT MELODY 


3 r 3 


Every time his image comes to my mind I hear 
again the saddening clatter of his dilapidated cym¬ 
bals as he dragged himself down the road, shaking 
his head mournfully, the prey of disappointments 
and troubles. 

Oh, unfortunate music, what martyrdom is 
yours! Your divine art turned adrift never seems 
so desolate as when at certain hours of the day it 
makes its appeal to busy households where there 
is no spare time even for compassion. While you 
play and sing the cobbler hammers his last, the 
smith his anvil, and all hurry hither and thither 
without lowering a voice. Carts enter and depart 
and your tones are drowned by the cries of itiner¬ 
ant venders of vegetables and brooms. Your 
verses of romance, of love, of the moon, and of 
paradise ascend in a vapor of soapsuds and min¬ 
gle with the clatter of dishes, the bawling of chil¬ 
dren, the scolding of housewives, and the prosaic 
worries of every-day life. 

The exhausted and famished tenor sings to the 
capon hanging outside an upper window, as he 
inhales the appetizing aroma of the roast cooking 
in the kitchen on the ground floor, and while he 
scratches and scrapes his violin a dog sets up a 
howl, boys stand and jeer, and the curious arise 
from the table and with mouths full appear at the 
windows.. 

Alas! alas! what cruel contrasts and what bitter 
ironies! The tightened heartstrings respond with 
the one pitiful note, “The penny for food.” 

Instead of experiencing a feeling of irritation at 
all these discordant voices and all these instru¬ 
ments of auricular torment, my heart turned in 



3 i 4 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


unconscious admiration toward this superhuman 
art which is the refuge of derelict creatures too old 
or not old enough to work; toward this much-out¬ 
raged melody which obtains for unfortunate hu¬ 
manity the crust of bread, otherwise sought often 
in vain from the charity of fellow-man, and which 
although offending the ear gives compensation by 
recalling vague memories and awakening in the 
heart echoes of other harmonies. 

It is often the sufferer’s sole means of conveying 
to us the knowledge of those miseries of which we 
are either ignorant or from which we turn away 
our heads when the appeal is mute. 

There sometimes came to me at night in one 
confused mass all the thousands of tunes which I 
had heard in the court these many years. They 
shook and rattled the window-panes like a musical 
tempest, and seemed to be the combined voices of 
all humanity which suffers and of all the unfor¬ 
tunates who, nailed to the cross of destiny, live in 
pain and die in desperation. 

A blind youth sang in a thin but pleasing tone 
a mournful ballad which had for its refrain “Ma 
la voce, la voce la so” (“But the voice, yes, I 
know the voice”) and told how a lover had lost his 
loved one, but how, after death, her voice had con¬ 
tinued to reverberate in his heart like a perpetual 
echo. 

Did the poor mendicant singer who flung his 
melody through an open window conceive the 
thoughts which were awakened, like a voice 'call¬ 
ing from the past in the mind of an invisible 
listener ? Did he imagine for a moment that be¬ 
hind the blank wall was one who sighed, and who, 



MENDICANT MELODY 


315 


when he bade the poor singer be silent and depart, 
hastened to recall his words and to secretly throw 
him a piece of money that he might repeat the song 
and might even come another time to awaken once 
more the sad memory of a voice vibrating with a 
thousand echoes through an overflowing heart ? 

“Ma la voce, la voce la so.” 




FIRST COMMUNIONS 


FROM THE FRENCH OF 


Andre Theuriet 







































































FIRST COMMUNIONS 


COR three weeks the streets of Paris and the 
* thoroughfares of the suburbs have been en¬ 
livened by the white dresses of first communi¬ 
cants. 

During the lovely days of spring, perhaps a 
trifle sharp, but at the same time so full of sun¬ 
shine, one hears the pealing of the church bells, 
and sees snowy tulle and veils of virgin whiteness, 
which harmonize so perfectly with the bouquets 
of hawthorne and lily of the valley. The young 
girls have all the airs and graces of miniature 
brides, while the boys, with white sashes around 
their arms, and all more or less ill at ease in their 
new clothes, assume the important manners of 
young neophytes. 

This morning I watched one of them making 
his way toward the church door, where the 
beadle, in his red coat trimmed with gold braid, 
sparkled in the sunlight like a gorgeous poppy. 
The boy held in one hand his wax candle and in 
the other his prayer-book, and was tripping along 
the sidewalk as if he were treading on eggs. He 
319 



32 ° 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


seemed equally absorbed by anxiety to preserve the 
frail candle from all unfortunate contact and by 
the importance of maintaining an attitude of pious 
contemplation. The touching and unnatural 
solemnity of the little chap, with his white arm- 
sash, all at once recalled to mind my own emo¬ 
tions at the time of my first communion, and I 
saw myself again dressed in my best, on the way 
to the village church, and once more heard the 
chimes of the bells. 

Since that time, alas! has passed a long series of 
years. It was the epoch when the grandfather of 
the Duke of Orleans actually reigned at the Tuil- 
eries. At that period they danced the quick polka, 
the new dance then in vogue, and sang in all the 
drawing-rooms, “ Gasti-Belza, l’homme a la Cara¬ 
bine,” the famous composition of Hippolyte 
Monpou, whose villa I can see at the present 
moment surrounded by old trees. I had for a 
week been in retreat at the convent of the “Sis¬ 
ters de la Doctrine,” where we were regaled by 
constant reminders of the horrors of sin, the tor¬ 
ments of hell, and the terrible consequences of 
sacrilegeous confession, until on the final Sunday 
my conscience had been reduced to a state of 
pious cleanliness. 

Absolution having been received, I went out 
from the confessional white as snow, and full of 
fervent resolutions. I marked out for myself in 
advance a strict rule of life. I promised myself to 
go to communion once a week, and to astonish 
the village with the spectacle of my piety. But 
these ardent resolutions did not prevent my visit¬ 
ing the coiffeur and instructing him to curl my 



FIRST COMMUNIONS 


3 21 


hair in the very latest fashion—called at the time 
“La mode a l’Enfant d’ Edouard,”—although 
when he had finished and I quitted the shop I 
w&s the victim of torturing scruples. Was not 
this anxiety as to my hair an intervention of the 
Evil One, and my soul, so clean up to now, was 
it not charged with the sin of vanity? The fear 
of going to communion in a, state of mortal sin¬ 
fulness kept me in torment most of the night, and 
destroyed for me the pleasure of the Sunday 
morning’s waking. It also pursued me on my 
way from the house to the church, as I walked 
alongside my companion for the first communion. 

He was the son of a wealthy iron-factor and had 
not the same scruples as I. He was very proud 
of his costume, and humiliated me by comparing 
the largeness of his candle with the smallness of 
my own, on which my family had shown an un¬ 
called-for economy. To my moral discomfort 
was soon added a physical one—my boots were 
too tight and tortured my feet! 

When once in the flowery nave, of the church, I 
perceived a priest and hastened to confess to him 
my case of conscience. He did not appear to 
show much concern. 

“That is right, my son,” he said; “now take 
your place.” So I went to my seat on the bench, 
wholly absorbed by a spirit of devotion. The boys 
sat in a row on the right, and opposite on the left 
were the girls, a white cloud of immaculate tulle. 
The organ sounded, and, with the incense, the 
chants mounted toward the vaulted ceiling. I 
was plunged into an angelic ecstasy, from which 
I was rudely awakened by a mishap—my candle 



3 22 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


was knocked by my neighbor and cracked just 
above where I held it. 

I had been chosen to repeat the act of faith, and 
was highly elated by the honor, but when I stood 
out before the expectant audience my anxiety 
about the shaky candle took away all my confi¬ 
dence and confused me pitifully in my recitation. 
This mishap gave a bitter flavor to my pious com¬ 
placency, and I thereafter became more absorbed 
by profane scenes, so that when the young girl 
charged with reciting the act of grace appeared 
in the front of the choir dressed all in white, with 
her Madonna face framed by chestnut hair, I 
contemplated her, with over-zealous attention. 

It was Suzanne, and she read “the act” with a 
silvery voice which touched my heart. She was 
pretty, and I had difficulty in dismissing from my 
mind a sinful thought. The idea came to me that 
it would be so delicious to be able to kiss her 
through her veil. This was the second rent which 
I had made in the delicate fabric of my piety. 

After dejeuner at home, we came back to ves¬ 
pers, and stood solemnly around the baptismal 
fonts; then the large doors of the church were 
thrown open, and in procession the boys and girls 
two by two, with banners at the head and escorted 
by a double line of the curious, picked their way 
through the narrow streets of the city, singing 
hymns. A bright sunlight sparkled on the pave¬ 
ment and tinted the acacias in the gardens. The 
boys shouted at the top of their voices: 

I see, I know, I think I am a Christian, 

Scoffers I disdain, 

Hurl your darts, 1 do not fear them, 

All your powers are vain. 




FIRST COMMUNIONS 


323 


Then further down the line, gentle and soft as 
the breath of May, the voices of the girls took up 
the refrain: 


Faith of our fathers, 

Which rules and delights, 

We adore every hour, 

Its morals and rites. 

In listening to the fresh, clear voices, a feeling 
of calm and exquisite pleasure took possession of 
me—a pleasure, however, somewhat modified by 
the tightness of my boots and the oscillations of 
my broken candle. 

Upon our return to church I felt tired and cross, 
and it was with inexpressible relief that I rid my¬ 
self of my candle by putting it into the hands of 
the verger. My temper later on was somewhat 
improved by the prospect of the gala supper 
which was to take place at the house of the father 
of my companion at the first communion. 

The repast was served in the open air in the 
iron-founder’s garden, which was illuminated for 
the occasion with colored lights. The rank and 
file of aunts and cousins had been invited. The 
menu was elaborate—trout from the Ornain, 
ecrevisse from the Meuse, sweets and nougats, 
the whole washed down by native wine, and cham¬ 
pagne for dessert. My fat-faced companion, who 
had annoyed me all day with his airs of superi¬ 
ority, succeeded in irritating me further by un¬ 
pleasant references to my broken candle and the 
way in which I had stumbled through the act of 
faith. 

Whether excited by the champagne or still in 
bad temper I do not know, but all at once I dealt 




3 2 4 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


him a blow in the face which he returned with 
interest, and to the scandal of the entire company 
we both rolled under the table and belabored 
one another with blows of the fist. And so this 
sacred day, which had begun m the midst of a 
dawn of peace and religious fervor, ended in tem¬ 
pest and tumult. 

We were separated and mildly reproved, and 
my recollection is that we finally “made up” and 
embraced one another, but I had left under the 
table the shreds of my religious enthusiasm, and 
from that evening all my aspirations to lead a life 
of piety were nipped in the bud. 




CHARITY 


FROM THE FRENCH OF 


Marie Anne de Bovet 










CHARITY 


C TILL in a glow from a perfumed bath, Mag- 
^ deleine Verdier stood before her rococo mir¬ 
ror, a relic of Madame Pompadour, engaged in 
her toilette, when the maid announced, “the girl 
from Sanchez is here to try on Madame’s bodice.” 

“Ah! it is you? I began to fear they were not 
going to keep their promise, and I wanted to 
appear especially beautiful to-night.” 

“Madame need not be alarmed; she shall have 
her costume without fail; the skirt is ready, and 
if I had not been prevented yesterday from going 
to the workshop the bodice would not have been 
late, but it is almost completed; a few more 
stitches will finish it.” 

Like all women who, in the effort to beautify 
themselves, are constantly in the hands of the 
maid and dressmaker, the masseuse, manicure 
and hairdresser, the popular actress had the habit 
of conversing with her subordinates while they 
were engaged about her person. 

“What was the matter yesterday?” she asked 
mechanically. 

3 2 7 



328 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


“Madame is so kind to interest herself in my 
troubles. I was very sorry to give Madame any 
annoyance, but my father was taken suddenly ill. 
He had to be removed to the hospital, as there is 
no one to take care of him except myself, and 
Madame can readily understand that I cannot 
afford to neglect my work.” 

The speaker was Blanche, the cleverest fitter 
of the establishment, a frail creature who had 
attended to many a fitting for Magdeleine Ver- 
dier. The latter had never particularly noticed 
the girl, as her attention was usually taken up by 
the head woman who superintended the opera¬ 
tion, the “petite” who held the pins, and “Mon¬ 
sieur” who came in to give the last critical look. 
When alone with her, ,however, this morning, a 
vague sense of compassion was awakened, and 
Magdeleine observed the girl more closely as the 
latter’s thin, transparent hands moved rapidly 
and skilfully in fitting the bodice. She now saw 
reflected in the mirror side by side with her own 
triumphant beauty a pale and haggard face with 
the bright red cheeks of a consumptive. Sharp 
lines told of deformity of body, and two large 
black eyes burning with fever and hollowed by 
weeping seemed to have looked only into an 
abyss of suffering and anguish. She felt, keenly 
the cruel irony of fate as she compared her own 
voluptuous figure with the dwarfed and almost 
grotesque silhouette of the poor little seamstress. 

“What was the matter with your father?” 

“I do not know just how to tell Madame—a 
sort of nervous affection. Would Madame like 
the trimming in this manner, high on the shoul- 



CHARITY 


329 


der ? I would suggest it because it diminishes the 
figure.” 

“La Belle Verdier” alas! was beginning to 
take on flesh; the only tangled thread in the fab¬ 
ric of her fife, that tissue of gold and pleasure. 

She answered, however, absent-mindedly; she 
was conscious of a tragedy in the life of the girl 
beside her and, because of her seeming unwil¬ 
lingness to divulge it, so much greater was Mag- 
deleine’s desire to know. 

Suddenly she saw the girl’s features distort, her 
lips become blue, her eyes roll and her nostrils 
contract. She tottered and would have fallen 
had not Magdeleine caught her in her arms. 

“ Quick, Leonie—my salts! The poor child has 
fainted.” 

The girl after a moment regained conscious¬ 
ness, and, mortified by her weakness, was profuse 
with apologies. 

“Oh, Madame, I am so ashamed; perhaps I 
worked too late last night on this bodice, and after 
having been so worried all day it must have 
affected my head. I hope Madame will excuse 
me—it’s all over now. I feel all right again, so if 
Madame is ready to go on with her fitting-” 

But Magdeleine had lost interest in the crepe- 
de-chine dress of jade-green with silver embroid¬ 
ery, this unique and inimitable costume whose 
material had been sent by one of her now-distant 
admirers from the far East—in the subtle and 
unusual shade which no other blonde in Paris could 
wear. She thought no more of the supper ar¬ 
ranged for that evening at which she proposed to 
fascinate an “Imperial Highness.” Having dis- 





330 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


missed her maid, who plainly resented the fuss 
made over a simple work-hand, impertinent 
enough to play the lady and faint, Magdeleine 
placed herself by the side of the poor girl among 
the silk cushions on the divan and gradually 
drew from her the sad story. 

It was the lamentable but every-day history 
of a family of Parisian work-people. While the 
girl was still an apprentice, her mother one fine 
morning had decamped in search of what was to 
be an easier and pleasanter existence on the 
Boulevards. From chagrin her father had taken 
to drink; had lost his situation, drifted from one 
employment to another, and finally ended by liv¬ 
ing on his daughter’s wages, and beating her into 
the bargain when under the influence of liquor. 

To the indignant exclamations of Magdeleine 
the poor creature responded with that calm res¬ 
ignation of the women of the people, the victim 
of the brutality of man, and whom the force of 
circumstances renders the law powerless to pro¬ 
tect. 

“Cruel? No, not quite that; when a man has 
been drinking of course he does not know what 
he is doing. Lock the door against him? Cer¬ 
tainly she had the right, but what was to prevent 
him from breaking in?—and then, too, he was 
her father. And she could not let him die in the 
street like a dog; besides, sometimes she could 
prevent him from returning to the wine-shop 
when he had money, and then there was the hope 
that he would reform. Before his misfortune he 
was always a good workman, and only drank on 
pay days. Yesterday, however, having taken a 



CHARITY 


33 1 


glass of absinthe too much, he was seized with a 
frenzy and began smashing everything in the 
apartment. He had dragged her around by the 
hair, and would have killed her had she not 
finally succeeded in escaping to the rooms of a 
neighbor, where they barricaded the door. 

“They sent for the police, and after a terrible 
struggle to subdue him, and with the neighbor¬ 
hood in an uproar, he was taken to the police 
hospital, and from there to the ward for the 
insane.” 

Now that her tongue was loosened, she con¬ 
tinued to talk—at times incoherently—without 
taking breath, and going from one subject to an¬ 
other, with tears of relief streaming down her 
cheeks. 

For the first time in her unhappy existence she 
was able to pour out the bitterness with which 
her heart was surcharged. She recounted the 
cruel and cutting slurs of the work-shop, the 
coarse jokes of which she was the butt; the ill- 
usage, lies and deceptions on the part of her asso¬ 
ciates from which diffidence and timidity pre¬ 
vented her from defending herself. But she had 
her work—her beautiful work. Ah! if she were 
not a poor girl how she would love to wear the 
exquisite costumes—but of course even those 
could not conceal her crookedness of body. 
Then, too, when work was over for the day, the 
others would leave, so happy to have finished; 
she alone found no pleasure in returning home, 
where ill-treatment and perhaps blows awaited 
her. 

All this was frequently interrupted by the dry 




332 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


and hollow cough of consumption which was 
burning out and destroying her lungs. 

“A severe cold had settled on her chest; they 
said it would go away when the warm weather 
came; after all, it was not such an unfortunate 
thing to die; now that she had no one, what was 
the use of living ? Her father was often a source 
of great trouble, but then it made a home; situated 
as she was at present, would any man want to 
marry her? If she had to be always alone she 
might as well put an end to matters at 
once-” 

She said these things deliberately, without 
malice and without anger, unconscious of her 
passive heroism. 

The comedienne was overcome by pity, but 
was powerless to succor this poor soul in distress. 
She could find only commonplace and empty 
phrases better fitted to appease the insignificant 
sorrows of a child. 

“The merciful God will recompense you, my 
poor girl,” she said finally. 

A strange look, the frightened and at the same 
time the beseeching look of a dog which has been 
beaten, came into the girl’s eyes as she replied 
almost with a sneer: 

“The merciful God! If there were one, could 
any person be so unfortunate?” 

Magdeleine Verdier was an acknowledged sin¬ 
ner. It was in honor of her predecessor and patron 
saint that she had introduced a “g” into her 
name. Often at supper she expressed a wish to 
end her days, as did that one, in solitude; an ex¬ 
cellent starting point for those melancholy and 



CHARITY 


333 


philosophical conversations on the nothingness 
of things in general to which, after the champagne 
and its period of fictitious gayety, one naturally 
abandons one’s self. She was a devout Catholic, 
and this blasphemy of the poor girl was 
shocking. 

“What! you have no religion? Ah! my poor 
child, you are more to be pitied that I 
thought.” 

The words were worthy to serve as the exor¬ 
dium of a sermon, and it was, in fact, a sermon 
which Magdeleine was preaching, but one which 
her cure would have considered to savor of 
heresy. As she had among her admirers an 
.apostle of Neo-Buddhism, her Christianity was 
tinged with the Hindu doctrines so seductive to 
the imagination. 

Divining the most sensitive spot in this wounded 
spirit, and refraining from speaking with per¬ 
suasive eloquence of the immortality of the soul 
and the joys of future life reserved for those to 
whom this life had been bitter, she developed 
subtly the theory of successive reincarnation. 
She assured the unfortunate girl that her spirit 
would return to animate a beautiful body, that 
perhaps she would be born again a grand lady, a 
princess or queen, and that it would then be her 
turn to wear pretty things such as she was mak¬ 
ing at present for women who did not appreciate 
them. 

It is puerile assuredly to present religion in 
such a form, but since religion is intended to con¬ 
sole, one way is as good as another, and it gave 
to this poor, miserable creature a vision of Para- 





334 


RETOLD IN ENGLISH 


dise, of which her long-forgotten catechism had 
taught her only the name. 

His “Imperial Highness” found “La Belle 
Comedienne” very much to his taste, but in spite 
of the fact that he plainly gave her to understand 
this, she did not appear to perceive it. The 
thought of the humble and deformed little dress¬ 
maker had banished from Magdeleine’s mind all 
ideas of conquest. She was unable to dismiss the 
heartrending picture. 

As in the case with all women of the theatre 
and of pleasure, she adored beauty. To be ugly 
seemed to her the most dire calamity. Work, 
privations, ill-treatment—these had much less 
power to arouse her sympathy. She herself had 
come from the people, and, while perhaps to a 
lesser degree, her youth had known misery and 
suffering. Since then, it is true, revenge had 
been sweet. 

The thought that these terrestrial compensa¬ 
tions fall to the lot of those who practise the re¬ 
verse of virtue did not fail to inspire her with in¬ 
quietude for the “Beyond,” but not to be loved, 
and, what is more, not to be worthy of it, was in 
her eyes purgatory anticipated. With that pas¬ 
sion for sumptuous and voluptuous silks and 
satins which she loved with the love of a miser 
for his gold, it seemed to her the most frightful 
of destinies to be condemned to continually handle 
and toil over them and never to wear them. 

“Mon Dieu, how cruel and unjust is life!”— 
and she imagined herself an accomplice of this 
cruelty and injustice. 



CHARITY 


335 


All of a sudden an idea occurred to her and 
she ordered her carriage. Magdeleine Verdier 
was a creature essentially impulsive. 

When she reached Sanchez, the plan conceived 
on the spur of the moment was ripe for execution. 
To tear the forsaken creature from the colorless 
existence which was her lot, to furnish her with 
peace and quiet for the short time she had to live, 
to develop in a warm atmosphere of comfort her 
dwarfed sensibilities, to wrap in silks and velvets 
that infirm body and aching flesh—to do all this 
she had only to send the girl to her villa at Nice, 
which an old aunt had in charge. She could 
despatch there, later, dresses and lingerie which 
she would never wear again. Surely she had 
enough. 

The following day the invalid was on her way 
to the Riviera. She died there at the first return 
of cold, wrapped in a peignoir of pink satin lined 
with white fur which up to her 4ast breath she re¬ 
fused to discard. Her suffering was tempered 
with visions of delight, and her poor little spirit, 
so obscurely heroic, floated away in a dream of 
beauty and grandeur. 

Magdeleine Verdier is by no means a Pharisee, 
but she cannot help hoping that this work of love 
will perhaps weigh in her favor in the divine 
balance. 















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TRANSLATIONS 


TZ\ 


Retold in English 

STORIES FROM FOUR LANGUAGES 

















































